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i ' ■ - • 







THE 


SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


21 tfouel. 


By John Saunders. 



NEW YORK: 

M. Doolady, 49 Walker Street. 
1861. 


V\ 











« 




R. CRAIGHEAD, 

Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper, 

Carton 13 mitring, 

81, 83, and 85 Centre Street . 








c 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER I. 

The House . * 7 

CHAPTER II. 

The Shadow 20 

CHAPTER III. 

A Dream dispelled 33 

CHAPTER IV. 

Miss Addersley takes up the Keys for the last time . . .52 

CHAPTER V. 

The New Mistress •. . 56 

CHAPTER VI. 

Jean’s Letter 81 

CHAPTER VIL 

The Quartermaster’s Widow 92 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Mr. Dell’s Studio 108 

CHAPTER IX. 

Jean’s Dowry 115 

CHAPTER X. 

Mother and Son 129 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER XI. 

At Midnight 141 

CHAPTER XII. 

Mrs. Dell’s Introduction to the World 14 7 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Sad Doings of John Short 173 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Mrs. Cairn at Home once more .180 

CHAPTER XV. 


Archy listens to that which he should not 190 

CHAPTER XVL 

Husband and Wife 196 

CHAPTER XVII. 

The Story of Archibald Cairn 201 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Sympathy and Counsel . - 223 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Teacher and Pupil 232 

CHAPTER XX. 

A Dream and an Awakening 252 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Another View from Norman’s Mount 263 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Unkennelling the Fox 273 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Archy begins to pay his Debts . 


. 297 


CONTENTS. 

V 

CHAPTER XXIY. 

PAGE 

A Surprise and an Inconsistency 

. 315 

CHAPTER XXV. 


Payne Croft in a Cause of his own 

. 325 

CHAPTER XXVI. 


A Silver Lining to the Cloud .... 

. 336 

CHAPTER XXVII. 


Grey Ghost Walk 

. 347 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 


After the Storm 

. 361 

CHAPTER XXIX. 


God’s Mercy and God’s Justice .... 

. 368 

CHAPTER XXX. 


The last Dreamer Awakened .... 

. . 314 

CHAPTER XXXI. 


A mightier Shade absorbs the Shadow 

. 383 






















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THE SHADOW U THE HOUSE. 


CHAPTEK I. 

THE HOUSE. 

If you have ever travelled from Leatham to 1ST or- 
worth, in the County of — , by the last remain- 

ing coach of the district (for the railway has not 
yet touched this part), you must have noticed as 
you crossed the little heath about seven miles from 
Leatham (where the furze seems to be never tired of 
blossoming) a double row of black, aged yews, on 
the right of the road, and which guide the eye through 
a kind of avenue between them to a pair of iron 
gates on the border of the heath. Over those gates 
spreads in every direction, while ascending to a great 
height, one of the finest and most striking of our 
forest trees, the purple beech ; and through its very 
centre stream forth, and droop gracefully over the 
gates* touching the very heads of the passer-by, the 
green tresses of a laburnum ; beautiful even now, when 
its flowers have passed, through its contrast in color 
and form with its gigantic neighbor and patron. 


8 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


The gates are open as usual ; and we need not won- 
der at that when we perceive the place they are sup- 
posed to guard. It is a wide and winding lane, a 
scene of tangled beauty and luxuriance. Self-sown 
trees, apparently — for what hand would have so 
oddly, or could have so felicitously, dispersed them ? 
— grow all along the way ; crab-apple, silver-coated 
birches, and mountain ashes, with their fruit just red- 
dening; leaving, it is true, a tolerably clear and 
unbroken road between them for carriages, and the 
ground is there firm and even. But at the sides, 
which assume occasionally almost the aspect of little 
bits from a dark cathedral aisle, the ground swells 
and sinks, narrows and widens, in the most pleasantly 
careless fashion, with little knolls studding it at inter- 
vals ; and you cannot walk without the fear of crush- 
ing at each step some wild flower, so thickly is the 
soil enamelled with bloom. But it is the banks that 
are the glory of this lane, rising so high, and exhibit- 
ing such a continual change. In some parts there are 
tall slender trees, the roots of which come out over 
your head, knotted picturesquely against the red soil. 
The banks are, indeed, a perfect wilderness of tree and 
branch, and leaf and flower, and wild fruit. Here 
you see a path abruptly mounting, which will take 
you into the thickest parts, and run along through the 
green covert, quite out of sight of the lane — or, 
indeed, for that matter, of everything else ; and there 
you will find it as suddenly and capriciously descend, 
as though the only object had been to aid the hunters 
for birds’ nests, or the sloe or blackberry-loving cliil- 


THE HOUSE. 


9 


dren, or, perhaps, simply to hint to the thoughtless 
wayfarer — “ Come and see what a little world there 
is up here, quite away from your own great world 
below.” 

But we soon come to a cross-barred gate, just where 
the lane narrows, and the high banks draw near to 
each other ; and through that gate, and an avenue 
of chestnuts beyond, we get our first glimpse of 
Bletchworth Hall, the residence of Mr. Bletch-vyorth 
Dell. It is only the corner of this side of the build- 
ing that is visible, just a strip from the ground to 
the roof, for the trees prevent one seeing more of 
all that portion of it which stretches away to the 
right. The strip reveals a grassy slope, ascending 
as from a moat, surmounted, next the building, by 
a low terrace wall, a handsome bay-window above, 
and, still higher, a gable roof. As we draw nearer 
we perceive that a broad gravel walk interposes be- 
tween the house and the low wall of the moat ; and 
that the latter has been filled up on the . right, but 
extends with its low terrace wall in front of the 
bay-window, to the corner, where a vase with scar- 
let geraniums breaks its level line ; then, turning 
at right angles, it goes along the whole front of the 
building, and disappears round the corner at the 
further extremity. The sides of the parts of the 
moat that have been thus preserved have been turfed 
over; and the effect of the long-continued slope, 
rising from the depths of the earth, and its wall- 
edging, has been to give fo the entire mansion a 
kind of airy dignity of position — to show it as seated 
1 * 


10 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


majestically on a noble terrace, and to suggest an 
idea of actual elevation of the soil, which is by no 
means correct. 

The road here divides. The branch on the right 
goes round to the back of the house, and through 
trees which .come quite up to the Hall, and allow 
its very irregular side to be visible only by glimpses. 
Take care ! you are now within the range of a pair 
of fierce eyes, that are peering at you through long 
shaggy black hair : Kero, the watch-dog, has a ken- 
nel close by, and if you pause or appear undecided 
as to which way you will go, he will set up a fero- 
cious howl, and an interminable barking. He lies 
in the way to the kitchen, and is particularly suspi- 
cious of visitors to that quarter. But if you move 
on the beaten and carefully-defined way to the left 
(that leads round the outside of the lawn through 
a perfect arcade of laburnum trees), as all honest 
visitors should ; and make no dubious or suspicious 
movements, such as men of sense always avoid, 
Kero will content himself with a low growl that 
says plainly enough, “ Umph ! all right, I suppose ; 
but mind, if it isn’t, I’m here.’ v 

And, pausing opposite the Hall at the first break 
in the inclosure of evergreens, we look in upon one 
of the most charming lawns that even this lawn-loving 
country can exhibit; unrivalled for its delicious, 
springy, tender-hued, velvety sward (I suspect the dry 
moat has something to do with that, it carries 
away so much water after heavy rains) ; unrivalled 
for its collection of standard roses, with stems that 


THE HOUSE. 


11 


here seem always graceful and natural — with 
blooms that appear to be unassailable by canker 
or insect; unrivalled for the few flowering or choice 
trees that it admits in proximity to the flower 
beds (Mr. Dell ransacked the country to find the 
largest and most perfect specimens, and spent no little 
money and time in getting them safely transplanted, 
and you see how theyj flourish — these pines and 
araucarias, double red hawthorns, and double red 
peaches, and double white cherries — these tulip-trees, 
and magnolias, and imperial paulownias, and, above 
all, these most graceful and varied weeping trees 
scattered about); unrivalled in the exquisite colors 
and forms of the flower-beds, and the symmetrical, 
and harmonious, and reciprocating curves of the 
gravel paths, which are covered with white powdered 
sea-shells — colours and forms which only a painter’s 
eye could have foreseen and arranged; unrivalled, 
lastly, in that magnificent sloping high belt of rhodo- 
dendrons, with lower-growing azaleas in front, the 
whole in gorgeous bloom, and which make the eye 
almost quiver with a sense of oppressive delight, so 
wondrous, so enchanting, is their splendour. But, in 
fact, Mr. Dell, the owner and author of this lawn, for 
he planned it, is an artist in taste and feeling, if not 
in actual display on the canvas, and even there he is 
supposed to show some power. And Mr. Dell has 
for his gardener a man who is the admiration and 
terror of every horticultural society within a hundred 
miles, for no prize is safe from his skilful and rapa- 
cious fingers. You may understand, therefore, how 


12 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


it is that, with such limited space, and with Mr. Dell’s 
moderate means, this lawn has become famous through 
the whole neighbourhood. 

Continuing along the roadf which presently sinks 
as it rounds the next corner to draw nearer to the 
Hall, and sinks so deeply that those who walk on the 
lawn look right over it, and over its laburnum fringe 
and the coppice beyond to Me open country, and the 
picturesque range of low Mils in the distance; we 
soon reach another turn, much, cutting off an angle 
of the lawn, takes us to the old bridge of the old 
moat, still existing — and a marvellous piece of solid 
masonry it is — and, crossing that, we stand on the 
broad gravel terrace, in the centre of the Hall front, 
and directly opposite the square, four-pillared, pro- 
jecting porch and entrance. 

And now your eye falls inquisitively on a small 
but remarkable piece of building, looking like a bit 
of domestic architecture fetched bo3ily out of the 
fifteenth century, and set down here for the wonder 
of the people of the nineteenth. Yes, that building, 
projecting itself so oddly forward, so rich in timber- 
work and carvings, and so full of glass windows in 
quaint patterns, is the sole remaining relic of an exten- 
sive manorial residence, erected towards the close of 
the fifteenth century. It is formed of stone and tim- 
ber, faces three ways, and each face presents the same 
peculiarities — a ground story, nearly all window; 
sumptuous carvings above, forming a kind of cornice 
to the next story, which projects greatly forward, 
having a similar expanse of window ; and above this 


THE HOUSE. 


13 


yet a third story, also projecting in advance of the one 
beneath, but having a smaller lattice window, and 
high-pitched gable roof; the edges of the latter 
enriched all the way up by the varying outlines of the 
carved woodwork until they meet and terminate in a 
quaint peak and gilded vane. 

Mark the deeply-cut inscription; in old English, on 
the woodwork — ■ 

jFims . IjJrase ge ILorlJe Sitno HJomtm mtctcicttt. 

Bgcfjarte (Sale, ffiarpetier. 

Within, there is but one room on each story, so that 
the three exterior windows on the three faces are, in 
truth, but one ; and picturesque rooms they are, with 
such bay-windows to illuminate them. It is a' great 
mistake to imagine the older forms of Tudor domestic 
architecture were necessarily subject to the disad- 
vantage of gloomy interiors. On the contrary, one 
wonders, as one looks at this fine old remain, how our 
forefathers managed to bear such an excess of light. 
Who built this, the beginning of the present Hall, 
cannot now be discovered ; but the family know very 
well who it was that destroyed the old pile, all but 
this piece. They have not forgotten, nor are they 
likely to forget, Sir Richard Bleytchworthe, knight 
and alderman of London, merchant, of the time of 
James the First ; who purchased the property towards 
the close of a successful commercial career, from a 
s Catholic family, which had been broken down by the 
persecutions to which they had been subjected during 
the latter part of Elizabeth’s and the early part of 


14 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


James’s reign, and by the ill-advised plots into which 
those persecutions tempted them. It is said (though 
merely as a tradition) that some Jesuit priests were 
concealed here for a long time, in some secret room or 
place that no art of the seekers could discover. Sir 
Bichard, on making the purchase, finally closed his 
ledger and counting-house, and came down to Bletch- 
worth to spend the rest of his days as a country mag- 
nate. y He found the old pile (as he tells us in the 
careful records he left behind), for the most part rotten 
and worthless; so, with excellent good sense, he 
determined merely to preserve, as a memento of 
ancient splendour and style, the soundest part that 
remained, restore that thoroughly but accurately, and 
then get rid of the rest, and erect a more suitable 
habitation for the long line of descendants that he 
hoped were to follow in due succession. So he added, 
in the latest Tudor style (that of his day) which har- 
monized sufficiently with the ancient relic without im- 
pairing its individual effect, a piece to the right ; and 
a piece to the left, including the gateway and porch, 
thus giving due breadth to the front ; then, turning at 
right angles, and continuing the building, he inclosed 
on three sides a small inner square, or court ; and 
then — before the workmen had removed their tools — 
he died. The fourth side was then formed by a part 
of the moat. This was only built on during the be- 
ginning of the present century, when Mr. Daniel 
Bletch worth, the last of the family in the direct line, 
thinking he should want more stable-room to accom- 
modate the guests he intended to invite, while sitting 


THE HOUSE. 


15 


as member for the borough of Leath am —which he 
intended to represent — erected this, the latest portion 
of Bletch worth Hall ; and as he did not trouble him- 
self about style, or even care to have an architect, he 
left the whole to a country builder, whose work, in 
its hideous plainness, would have ruined the whole 
exterior, but that Mr. Daniel’s wife, who seemed to 
live but to repair or to gloss over his errors or 
absurdities, caused the inner face to be covered with 
ivy and Virginian creeper; which has grown so luxu- 
riantly that now even the shape of the windows and 
doors is hardly discoverable. And so, oddly enough, 
the result is that that rich wall of living green, with 
its deep bold archway beneath in the centre, and with 
its line of battlements on the top, now lends new grace 
and meaning to the architecture of the other three 
sides of the court, by reminding one of the old 
manorial days when defence was necessary; by its 
contrast in form and colour to the architecture of the 
other three sides ; by the sense of relief it affords to 
the eye; and by its half-suggestions of the open coun- 
try beyond, which is thus pleasantly veiled. As to 
the autumnal effect of that wall you may guess what 
it must be then, when* the Virginian creeper appears 
in all its colour-glory. 

There is one more feature of the Hall — and one 
only, to which I must draw your attention before I 
begin my story ; and that is the muniment room of 
Sir Richard Bleytchworthe, on the west or further 
side of the Hall, which, like the east or avenue side, 
is closely — far too closely — pressed in upon by fine 


16 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


old trees, that no owner has had the heart to cut awaj. 
As we go thither, repassing the gravel walk in front of 
the Hall, we are tempted to pause for an instant, and 
listen with shut eyes to the sounds that fill the air. 
Vainly you try to disentangle them. Many — and the 
sweetest — are faint, distant, and inexplicable. But 
there are doves cooing from a little summer-house ; 
there is a peacock sending out now and then his 
unearthty cry, which puzzles me now, as it has puz- 
zled me before, to decide whether it is most like a 
trumpet clang, or some wild scream of terror. Bees 
are humming and buzzing cheerily. Then there are 
sudden rushings and clappings of wings from a cloud 
of pigeons overhead, before they settle on the gable 
roof of the relic of the old moated mansion. But 
above all, listen to the songs of the birds from the 
neighbouring orchard, which is as famous for them as 
for its patriarchal apple-trees and mystic mistletoes, 
with those cold, grey, bloodless, but lustrous berries 
for eyes. « It is the belief of the neighbourhood that 
there are more thrushes, and blackbirds, and song- 
sters of all kinds in and around the Hall, than in half 
the county beside. Really to-day it should seem so. 

But we have turned the far corner ; and there, in 
a deep and dark recess of the architecture, we per- 
ceive a winding flight of steps on the face of the wall ; 
green with little tufts of grass which force themselves 
up through the cracks, and which lead to a little stone 
balcony, and thence to the room where Sir Richard 
Bleytchworthe used to sit during the rebuilding of the 
Hall, and jot down the wages of the labourers, and a 


THE HOUSE. 


17 


host of other details of expenditure, very uninterest- 
ing to all but himself just then, but which would glad- 
den the heart of many an antiquary now, if Mr. Dell 
would but let them be published in illustration of the 
condition and habits of the people of the fifteenth 
century. There the papers are, at all events, in that 
great iron-banded, black, oaken chest, in Sir Bichard’s 
favourite room, if any zealous Dryasdust cares to 
look after them. 

As to Sir Kichard, I expect that the meaning of the 
external staircase that he had put to this room was, 
that he found it so convenient for slipping down 
unexpectedly upon the workmen, to see if they were 
idling, or putting bad work in the fast-rising Hall. 
The room is now equally a favourite with Miss Grace 
Addersley, Mr. Dell’s cousin, from Virginia, who 
came here at his invitation after her father’s death, 
bringing her mother with her, just ten months ago, 
and who is now the virtual mistress of the Hall, 
pending the time when Mr. Dell shall marry. 

Yes, Miss Grace Addersley has this room; and 
she and her mother occupy the apartments extending 
from here to the front, overlooking the lawn, in this 
wing of the Hall. Perhaps she is there at present. 
She is fond of looking through the heavy square 
window, surmounted by the three fantastically shaped 
peaks of stone, the middle one rising higher than the 
others, and the whole so strongly relieved against the 
sky by that soft billow of white cloud that crosses it. 
The ivy has collected in a thick mass between the 
window and the peaks, and falls heavily in gloomy 


18 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


festoons over the window. Generally, no touch of 
colour kindles the dead grey stone of this window and 
its dividing mullion, or of the little stone balcony, or 
of the greenish-grey of the steps, or of the murky 
watery blackness of the glass ; but at this moment, 
perhaps through some door in the room being opened, 
and letting in a ray of sunshine from the inner court 
(the only way it ever gets it), there is a little play of 
light on the window from within, which makes the 
stained pane of glass at each of the corners glow 
forth like four blood-red lights. Were it not for this 
unusual radiance you could not see the heavy fringe 
of burnished gold hanging below the upper panes. 
Stay ! what is that bit of doubtful light in one of the 
middle panes ? Ah ! yes, it is a face, her face, no 
doubt ; turned sideways from the neck — a still face, 
slightly drooped, with strong white brows bent for- 
wards, and eyes that are quite invisible to us, gazing 
on, on, right under the two black cedars, into the 
impenetrable gloom of Grey Ghost Walk. 

How could I have forgotten that ? Well, with that, 
at all events, I will end my description of Bletchworth 
Hall. The further you go down the avenue (why is 
it called Grey Ghost Walk ? — I am sure I cannot tell, 
nor, apparently, can any one else that I have asked), 
the heavier and gloomier grows the air. Ill places 
the darkness is made to seem more dense by the little 
sunbeams that steal timidly across the thin-bladed 
lank grass, that starts up like hair. And in yet other 
places you come upon bold, large, open-eyed violets, 0 
that live long after their scent is gone, peering forth 


THE HOUSE. 


19 


with long stalks from the leaves that no longer shelter 
them. The ground is very soft and pulpy towards 
the end ; and in that little patch of thick grass, where 
the green is almost unnaturally bright, a snake has 
been seen in the early summer mornings. And here, 
too, when a flickering sunbeam plays upon a bit of 
the bare moist soil, large clammy worms are writhing 
about, and wreathing themselves together in ghastly 
plays ; while myriads of creeping unclean-looking 
insects hurry off into shelter from the unwonted 
beam. 

At the end is a door, greenly black, with a lock 
and hinges red with rust. Thin-leaved worn-out ivy 
stems chain it across and across ; and a spider has 
carried his web from the lock to the uplifted latch. 
It is a door of which no one can tell when it was last 
opened, and looks as though it had grown to the 
walls ; a door which often sets the school-boys from 
Yelverton, the nearest village, conjecturing, as they 
go past and dig their knives into it, what elysium of 
currant trees or red bursting gooseberries it opens 
upon. 

But let us get out of the avenue and back into the 
sunshine. Somehow it chills one’s very soul. I 
wonder what pleasure Miss Grace Addersley can find 
in looking into such an unlovely, unhealthy vista ! 
True, it points westwards, towards the sunny land 
she left. Perhaps that may have something to do 
with her sympathies for Grey Ghost Walk. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE SHADOW. 

“ Don’t tell me ! anxious to please, indeed ! If 
that’s all, can you tell me why she’s bin a fidgitin’ and 
a lookin’ out a winder all the blessed day, like a cat 
in a strange house ? What do it matter to her if 
master bides away a week later nor what he put in 
his letter, if that’s all — he’s his own master, ain’t he ! 
No, no, it mayn’t ’a entered your poor brain, girl, it 
ain’t like it should ; but I know that when folks is so 
mighty nice about things they never thought on afore, 
a turning out o’ their beds slave’s time, to get particu- 
lar sort o’ flowers for somebody’s study, and a dressing 
up different three or four times in a day, I know 
they’ve got notions o’ their own — pretty deep notions, 
too ; not that I ’a got anything to say agen ’em ; she 
can’t be muck more mistress over things as Mrs. Dell 
than she is as Miss Addersley, for what I see.” And 
Cook, for she was the speaker, pursed her mouth and 
shook her head, as she loosed the strings of the little 
black work-bag before her. 

That old kitchen, with its just washed and yet wet 
stones, and heavy window-blind swinging gently to 
and fro, and soft subdued light, was very cool and 


THE SHADOW. 


21 


pleasant for a kitchen just then : and the little search- 
ing, wandering sunbeam which peered in at the half- 
open door grew tired of looking vainly for dirty corners, 
and amused itself by making mimic suns of every 
bright thing it came upon. 

Cook, and Meggy the kitchen-maid, were sitting 
down at either end of the long table at the window ; 
Meggy with a stocking and necklace of darning cot- 
ton, and Cook with her old black bag, with two knit- 
ting-needles sticking out. Many times that afternoon 
had she thus taken up her bag and put it down again 
just as she was drawing the strings, to execute some 
fresh order brought by Miss Addersley’s maid, Jean. 
Altogether Cook’s temper had been very much tried, 
and as Meggy expressed it, “she had been in her 
Saturday humour all day long.” And now, as at last 
Cook drew forth a number of little diamond-shaped 
dirty bits of knitting from the black bag, Meggy 
secretly rejoiced ; for well as she knew that when 
Cook tied on a certain huge greasy^ apron that she 
must expect nothing but cuffs and abuse till she took 
it off again, so she knew when those bits of dirty 
knitting appeared that so long as she showed proper 
attention and sympathy, she need fear nothing till they 
were put up again. In truth, the greasy apron was 
only donned at busy times ; and Cook seemed to have 
a firm opinion that it was impossible to prepare a 
good dinner, or at least for any one to enjoy it, unless 
she worked herself up the while to one of her Satur- 
day humours, and rated and abused the cats and 
Meggy, for of her she thought little more than of 


22 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


them. “ A poor mawkish-brained thing,” she called 
her, “ as couldn’t say Bo to a goose ; ready enough to 
do her best, but what sort o’ best is it? Why, one as 
beats a fool’s worst — that’s all !” 

But when the bag was opened, and the bits of dirty 
knitting drawn one by one from it, each told its little 
story and turned the current of Cook’s thoughts, 
sometimes to a better channel, sometimes to a worse. 
One of the very dirtiest pieces told of watching all 
night at the bedside of an ailing child, where it had 
grown under weary fingers, for the sake of keeping 
weary eyes open. Another had been framed in a quiet 
parlour, behind a saddler’s shop in the High-street of 
Leatham, and spoke of comfortable cups of tea there, 
and more comfortable expectations. Another, with 
tight-drawn stitches, spoke of disappointment, rage, 
and hopes dashed to the ground. Yes, plain, bluff John 
Short (“ other folks might call him Mr. Short, she 
wouldn’t!”) the saddler, had been very kind to Cook 
whenihe needec^kindness much ; and to her ailing little 
girl to the ve^ last minute of her life, while they 
were neighbours ; and he had liked to see Cook make 
herself at home in his parlour (John didn’t mind her 
talking so long as he wasn’t wanted to do it) ; yet 
without knowing how, though all his neighbours 
guessed, he had managed to offend her past all for- 
giveness. The truth was, he had sent to her one day 
to ask her to come on to his shop in the course of the 
afternoon, as he had something very particular to 
communicate. She came — ribbons, and bag, and 
knitting, and all, and a great flutter she was in, 


THE SHADOW. 


23 


making sure that the day she had so long expected 
had arrived, and that that parlour, with the broad- 
bottomed chairs, and a duck of a round table, would 
be her own. She came, and sitting on one of the 
broad-bottomed chairs, with the tea-tray between 
them, and nice muffins still further to open the poor 
woman’ s heart (for she did enjoy a delicacy when 
anybody else cooked it), John Short informed her in 
about half-a-dozen words — taking bites of the well 
buttered, half-oily muffin between each, to save time 
— that the cook’s salary and the kitchen of Bletch- 
worth Hall could be hers for the asking. It was at 
that moment she knitted the bit with the tight-drawn 
stitches, which she was now taking out of the bag on 
the kitchen table. As she looked at it, and pulled it, 
vainly trying to get it to the same size as the others, 
Meggy looked out of the corners of her little eyes, 
and saw by the dark shade spreading over Cook’s 
face, that her thoughts were already making for the 
back parlour of the saddler’s sh<jp in Hig^street, 
Leatham. 

“ John Short don’t trouble hisself to come too 
soon,” said she. “ How does he know but what mas- 
ter’s been a waiting for him since morning ?” Cook 
eyed her suspiciously over her glasses for a minute, 
and then putting the bits together, which made a 
square half-yard towards the enormous counterpane 
they were to form, said — “ But he ain’t been a waiting, 
has he ? I see no call for hurry ; let him take his 
. time. Don’t fret yourself,” she added, contemptuously, 
as though it were poor Meggy that had been expect- 


24 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


ing him, and not herself : “ he’s only a biding his 
time till the good things is about.” 

“ You never says a good word o’ John Short,” said 
Meggy ; and then, half-repenting her own audacity, 
she bustled away to lay a cloth at the end of the 
dresser, and to get out the cheese. 

“ Oh, I got nothing to say agin him,” observed 
Cook, satirically winding up her cotton, “ only that 
he’s a poor pitiable crittur as don’t know his own 
mind. Yes, you’re mighty anxious to see. him set 
there a gorging, ain’t you? You’d make a pair, you 
would? for his head goes too slow, and yours 
too fast. It’s a pity you can’t put ’em together, and 
make ’em even ; and a blessed even it u’d be !” Here 
Meggy dropped, or, as Cook said, pitched herself, 
into a chair, and throwing her apron over her head, 
went off in a prolonged hysterical fit of laughing. 

“ What ! you’re off again, are you ?” said Cook, 
getting up and shaking Meggy vigorously by the 
shoulders, and slapping her back till she gasped for 
breath, and was still with exhaustion, which state 
Cook called “ coming to.” 

“ What’s the matter ?” asked a deep gruff voice at 
the door ; “ Meggy bad again ?” 

“ Oh, you’ve come, have you ?” was Cook’s reply, 
as she, sat down to her knitting, and pointed to 
Meggy’s empty chair at the other end of the table. 
“You’d a mind not to hurry yourself.” 

J ohn Short leisurely put his hat on a chair by the 
door, and then as leisurely took two strips of leather » 
that hung on his arm, and placed them carefully 


THE SHADOW. 


25 


across his hat. He then advanced, with slow careful 
steps, as though he doubted the floor being strong 
enough to bear his weight, took the proffered chair, 
and stared agape at Meggy, who, with her apron up 
to her mouth, was doing her utmost to prevent her- 
self going off again. He evidently wasn’t a man to 
hurry himself— with that big heavy body and solemn 
close face, which you could see he had no mean idea 
of by the way in which a curl was brought down 
upon his cheek. He had a good broad forehead, and 
eyes, which, though slow at travelling, were strong 
and bold ; but the weakness of John Short’s honest 
face was his mouth. It was not only larger than he 
could desire, but he could not keep it shut, do what 
he would. The lips were fresh-colored, and always 
looked as if he had been eating bread and butter. 

“ There, get your mouthful,” said Cook, “ and 
don’t take no notice of her tantantrums. I never see 
her like before. When she’s once been off, like she 
was when you came, she won’t give a dithering, and 
a shaking, and a hawhawing, till she goes to bed, and 
then it’s a chance if she don’t bring it on worse by 
half- smothering herself to stop it.” 

“ Hot right here?” inquired John, putting his huge 
thumb to his forehead. 

“Well,” said Cook, doubtfully, glancing at Meggy’s 
red shining face, in which the little twinkling eyes 
once more began to appear ; “ well, I’m sure that 
passes me to answer. I can’t say as how she’s down- 
right struck, ’cause she don’t have no queer fancies, 
such as talking to herself, or getting up in the night, 

2 


26 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


or a carrying a carving knife in her pocket. And 
then as to work, bless you, she couldn’t live without 
work, and she works well too ; but then it’s enough 
to turn a cat giddy to see the way she goes at it. 
Give her them steps to clean — which is her work, 
and very nice she keeps ’em — give her them to do, 
and she’ll rush at 'em as if she was going to knock 
down a mountain, and scour as if they’d all run away 
if she didn’t get to the bottom by some out-of-the-way 
time that her poor racketty brain ’s fixed on.” 

“ More trouble than her work’s worth, I should 
say,” remarked John Short, looking down on Meggy 
from Cook’s own height of contemplation, as if she 
were some new and extraordinary animal about which 
he was puzzled and rather interested. 

“ Well, I don’t know but what she is,” replied 
Cook, smoothing out a new diamond of knitting on 
the table, “ I don’t mean to say but what she’s well 
enough when you’ve got her quiet, to sit opposite 
you like that chiney tea-pot, listening to what you’ve 
got to say, and show you a bit o’ feeling when you 
wants it ; or if you’ve got a racking headache in the 
night with taddling over a great supper, she’ll get up 
though her legs has been going all the blessed day, and 
get you a cup of tea as nice as may be. But, bless 
you, it’s a chance if her brain don’t get the better of 
her afore she’s done, and make her want to go faster 
nor her legs ’ll carry her, and then she’ll fling herself 
forrads — tea and all — any where’s ! that’s her. She 
can fiddle-faddle over you w r hen you ain’t well ; but 
come a time when you’re most ’mazed a getting up 


THE SHADOW. 


27 


dinner, and this saucepan’s a bilin over, and that’s a 
tippin into the fire, and both your hands is taken up 
with them, and the hot cinders is just tumbling into 
your gravy, call her then to give you a cloth or 
something to take hold of the pan with, and she’ll 
come tearing up to you as if the chimney was a-fire, 
and plack her foot down on your gravy-pan, and pull 
a biling saucepan over you, and then, when she sees 
what she’s done, instead o’ making the best on it and 
helping to cure it, she’ll just fling herself into a chair 
and go off like that. But there, you can’t do her no 
good ; she’s had her fit, and she’ll bear the shakes on 
it till her next comes, which ain’t far off*, I’ll warrant. 
Get your morsel, man, do.” And Cook bustled off 
with a j ug to the cellar, for she was better pleased to- 
day with Mr. Short. He had listened with attention 
to her complaints about Meggj' ; and though he had 
uttered but three sentences since his entrance, yet, for 
him, he had been unusually loquacious ; and, as Cook 
said to herself, as she stood between the two beer 
barrels in the cellar, “ It’s alius best to be on the safe 
side. There’s no telling what’s in his head yet ; men 
is so deceitful !” 

“Well, Mr. Short, and what’s your town news?” 
said she, as she put the foaming jug before him, on 
her return. 

“Got no t own news,” said Mr. Short, with his 
mouth full, bearing heavily upon the word “town.” 

“ Then what’s your country news?” inquired Cook, 
leaning back in her chair, and folding her arms ex- 
pectantly. John finished his draught of ale, drew the 


28 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


back of one band across his mouth, and took a piece 
of fragrant greenish-looking old Cheshire with the 
other in readiness, whilst he replied — 

“ ’Twas old Symes, the tanner, that told me.” 

“That fold you what?” said Cook testily; for 
the cheese was interrupting John’s further utter- 
ance. 

“ What I’m going to tell you.” But he stopped 
again, and Cook perceiving the cause — the opening 
of the door leading into the long stone passage con- 
necting the kitchen with the other apartments, and the 
entrance of Jean — leaned back defiantly in her chair, 
determined to be “ worried” no more by her or her 
mistress. 

Jean pushed open the door with a quick, nervous 
jerk, and stood holding the handle. She looked 
young, yet it was hard to tell why, for there was no 
roundness in her figure, no fulness nor colour in her 
face, nothing of youth’s ease or confidence, or of its 
grace and sensitiveness, in her manner. Her dress, 
of dark uncertain colour, fell round the long figure in 
spare folds, without a wrinkle in the tight-fitting body 
or in the close old-fashioned sleeves. It came high 
up the long thin throat, and was finished off by a 
collar of white linen. Her hair was drawn tightly 
together at the back, and twisted in a knot. She gave 
you the impression of one who knew how to do just 
what was necessary in dress as a matter of necessity 
or duty, but who had lost all sense of womanly 
pleasure and pride in the doing. She said, without 
moving from the door, and not in a very pleasant 


THE SHADOW. 


29 


voice, while her sharp grey eyes moved wanderingly 
about the kitchen, from John Short to the open kit- 
chen door — 

“ Miss Addersley wishes some one to go up to 
Norworth on the mare, and see if the coach left at its 
usual time.” 

And the door shut again ; and as the quick steps 
died away, John Short, who had risen, sat down 
again, while Cook got up, and cramming all her knit- 
ting into the bag, said — - 

“ Did you ever hear the like o’ that ? Why, the 
coach can't ’a passed yet ! That don’t show notions, 
I s'pose? As sure as my name’s Betsy Touch, it was 
a done thing before he went to the ’Hands, that they 
were to be married, and he’s only been* to have his 
outing fust, afore it’s too late. Well, to be sure! to 
be sure! Well, I suppose nobody’s got nothin’ to 
say agin it ; as far as I know she gies as good a name 
as she takes. Why, what ails the man ? What are 
you guffawing about now ?” 

“ ’Twas Symes, the tanner, that told me,” again 
began John, picking off the crumbs from his claret- 
coloured waistcoat. 

“ So you said afore,” Cook replied tartly. 

“ Well, old Symes stopped at my place t’other 
day, and, says he, ‘ Didn’t you tell me Mr. Dell was 
gone to the Highlands ?’ 1 Yes,’ says I. * Then he 

isn’t,’ says he; ‘I saw him at Fallon, one hundred 
and nine miles from this, j ust outside a village, where 
I had been about some bark ; he was trying to reach 
with his stick a flower from the top of the hedge, and 


30 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


there was a lady at his side who I’ll swear wasn’t a 
new acquaintance.’ ” 

“ Lor!” interrupted Cook, “ and was he sure ’twas 
master ?” 

“ He said so.” 

“ And what was she like ?” 

“ Well, I thought old Symes seemed ashamed to 
say how much he’d been struck with her face, it were 
so uncommon pretty.” Here the passage door creaked 
a little ; and John noticed, though Cook did not, that 
it had somehow become open while he talked. Cook, 
full of eager interest, exclaimed — 

“ Well ?” 

“ I don’t know any more,” said John, glancing 
uneasily at the door, for it creaked again and swung 
wide open, while the kitchen door banged, and the 
window-blind flapped to and fro. He looked along 
the passage, became determinedly silent, rose, took up 
his hat and strips of leather, hung them as before on 
his arm, said, “ Good-bye, Cook ; I must be at Lea- 
tham before dusk,” and strode solidly and slowly out. 

What could it be that thus silenced him, and sent 
him off before the froth had altogether left his ale ? 
Grim and ghastly things don’t usually haunt that 
passage ; yet he had seen something which troubled 
him. Ha ! it is still there ! the elongated shadow 
of a female figure projected across the floor, and 
up the wall, both of which are bathed in vivid 
sunlight from some open, unseen door in the cor- 
ridor which crosses the end of the passage. But 
John Short’s loud voice has ceased, he is gone, and 




THE SHADOW. 


81 


— see ! the shadow glides rapidly along the wall, 
growing smaller by degrees, and so also disappears. 
We follow — catch a glimpse of a retreating figure, 
through the corridor into the hall, where it stands for 
a moment in a blaze of light, uncertain and agitated. 
But that state passes, fast as we saw the shadow itself 
fly, and she seems to collect herself — sternly, calmly. 
The tall graceful form seems to dilate, the strong 
white brow to darken, the clear-cut profile to stand 
out more perfectly expressive of a resolved will. 

Grace Addersley would be esteemed a beautiful 
woman if there were not always something about her 
that prevented the eye, or the thought, from resting 
on her beauty. That left arm, for instance, hanging 
down among the black soft folds of the velvet dress, 
is as perfect in shape and roseate whiteness as an arm 
could be ; but there is such an almost manly strength 
in the clench of the hand, that one unconsciously 
expects to see sinewy cords in it. The same strength 
(though perhaps only this moment) mars the beauty 
of the mouth, and of the meeting brows, crowned 
with plaits of rich pale brown hair. But, see ! the 
face is raised, and stretched forward as if listening to 
a distant sound, the hand is unclenched and lets fall 
a piece of delicate embroidery — it does not look 
accustomed to such work, but if you watch for a 
ihinute you will perceive how impossible it is for 
those hands to keep still — how necessary it is they 
should have some definite employment. It trembles 
now — -just a little, as it looses the golden chain about 
the swelling throat, and there is, I fancy, a quiver 


32 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


about the mouth as .she opens the door, and stands 
again listening in the square porch. Hark! Yes, 
there is the sound of horses’ feet, and now Nero and 
the big pups are yelping as they never did yelp but 
for Mr. Dell, and after such an absence. They seem 
determined to yelp their very hearts out. Grace 
hears, and stands there in smiling expectancy — the 
elegant and once more thoroughly self-possessed 
hostess of Bletchworth Hall. 


CHAPTER III. 


A DREAM DISPELLED.. 

There are men in whom the natural powers 
spring up at their very birth in such healthy strength 
and harmonious balance, that they will go on grow- 
ing without effort, apparently without even seeming 
to grow; become vigorous in body, energetic, able, 
and accomplished in mind, virtuous and disciplined 
in character, yet making no special, still less any 
worldly, use of these advantages ; fit for everything, 
yet desiring nothing beyond what they already pos- 
sess — the happiness of life; be thor^ghly individual, 
and yet pass among the crowd without notice ; look- 
ing on that crowd with quick observing eyes that 
penetrate to depths undreamed of in the said crowd’s 
philosophy, while themselves but adding in general 
estimation another insignificant item to the mighty 
mass of insignificance. 

Such was Mr. Bletchworth Dell, whose form, 
scarcely reaching in height the ordinary standard, 
and getting decidedly rounder than he wished to be, 
was so graceful in movement, so manlydooking, and, 
at times, so dignified in expression, and whose face, 
while destitute of all pretension to regularity of out- 
2 * 


34 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


line, was so impressed in its tender flexibility, in its 
rapid successions of light and shade, with what seemed 
at least to be a rich and unceasing flow of thought 
and feeling, that we could not help being drawn to 
the conclusion that both form and face must have 
been moulded into their present shapes and happy 
union with each other, by a particularly happy spirit 
beneath. Mr. Dell was certainly the very picture of 
an enjoyable man, provided you only mean by that 
to express the enjoyment that refines and cultivates 
life, and makes it instinctively graceful, and that 
brings it into harmony with the thousand forms of 
encircling being, the endless procession of visible 
things that seem to whisper, “ Eden is not yet all lost 
to the world, if the world will but open its eyes 
and purify its heart to see.” Yes, Mr. Dell was a 
happy, enjoyable, fortunate, and altogether most 
enviable man ; and if he really had ever met with 
one severe trouble in his lifetime, he had either quite 
forgotten the circumstance, or remembered it only to 
enhance the sense of his satisfaction at getting rid of 
so unwelcome a visitor; you could plainly see that in 
his whole aspect and behaviour. 

But it is not good to be too comfortable. So, 
perhaps, Mr. Dell felt now, and apparently was re- 
signed in consequence, as he weighed over in his 
mind the probable results of his return home after 
an unusually prolonged absence, and shaped out in 
detail the kind of conversation he intended to hold 
with his cousin Grace. Ilis thoughts evidently per- 
plexed him ; and yet, somehow, when they became 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


35 


too perplexing, there would flow in a suggestion, as 
from some fresh quarter, that seemed to clear away 
all clouds in an instant, and bring back more than 
the old animated glow. Oh ! decidedly something 
more than that ! Yet still the perplexity was trouble- 
some, the thoughts it raised stuck like burrs to his 
mental garment, and as fast as he removed them from 
one part they appeared to be only the moj*e inextri- 
cably lodged in another. Well, well, he must make a 
bold plunge. 

But — 0 Mr. Dell, was it a bold plunge to go 
timidly round by the stables and back entrance, 
when you knew, or might have known, that Grace, 
as her old habit was, waited — yes, expectantly, at 
the porch of the front entrance? Was it boldness 
that, when you did meet her in the hall, and she 
advanced with such graceful, impressive, warm cor- 
diality to greet you, and you looked for the 
moment so delighted to see her, but then re- 
lapsed, you did not give her that kiss of kindly 
familiarity with which you ever before greeted 
her after any unusual separation? Was it excess 
of boldness that made you (0 Mr. Dell ! I am 
ashamed that I have spoken so much good testi- 
mony of you !) become so silent and unresponsive, 
and so eager to welcome any little bit of unmean- 
ing gossip that might start up, in your first talk, 
as you and Grace took your way together into the 
room she had prepared for you, instead of your saying 
to her, as you had sworn to yourself you would say — 
the few sentences which would at all events prevent 


36 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


any longer misconception on some serious point of 
your mutual relations ? And that preparation ! — O 
lover of antique old rooms, and of the charming and 
fruitful associations between past and present life that 
skilful and patient fingers can weave together unsus- 
pected, and leave hanging all about the very atmo- 
sphere when you think you are surrounded only by 
furniture,, and books, and pictures, and statuettes. 
Enjoyer of all that is most enjoyable among the so- 
called good things of life ! — what would not you and 
I give when decidedly hungry, body and soul, as Mr. 
Dell is — and the dinner-hour far distant, to be taken 
by the hand of a beautiful maiden and led into such a 
room as now waits that worthy gentleman? who, 
however — troubled perhaps still by those mental burrs 
I have spoken of — does not, I fear, just now deserve 
so much delicate and ill-requited attention. Look at 
that room steadily. It is his own, forming the ground- 
story of the relic of the old moated mansion ; his dar- 
ling room, where he had loved to paint, and to read, 
and to muse over his cigar, and to chat with Grace, 
and to dream with her of an ambitious future ; your 
genuine dreamer not only doesn’t object to dream of 
active life, he likes it ; ’tis a fearful joy, snatched as it 
were out of the enemy’s camp. Here, too, in bright 
dewy mornings, and fervent afternoons, and tender 
twilight evenings, he had gradually fallen into the 
habit of taking his meals with Grace in a quiet cosy 
way, when there have been no visitors, and when Mrs. 
Addersley, an invalid, had kept her chamber. Grace 
had hitherto not been so fond of this room as Mr. Dell. 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


37 


To-daj their feelings should seem to be reversed; 
such care, and forethought, and tact has she shown in 

making the most of the old place, while he 

But never mind him just now, if he is determined 
to be ungrateful. Let us glance at the place, and at 
Grace’s handiwork. It is a rather long, very low, but 
decidedly broad room, extending from the three-sided 
bay-window in front to the inner court behind, which 
you cannot see now on account of the high screen 
that incloses that end, and forms it into one of the 
pleasantest studies that ever painter revelled in. The 
dark floor gleams again, every here and there, with 
the brilliant polish ; and along the carved and 
richly-pannelled dark wainscot walls, stand out 
the touches of colour and gilding that mark the* 
heraldic devices of a single row of shields of arms. 
The centre of the room is bare of furniture ; in fact, 
there are merely two very ancient and old-fashioned 
chairs, with red velvet cushions and heavy gold 
fringes, both richly carved and dark, and illumi- 
nated with coloured and gilded coats of arms like 
the walls. They stand one on each side the 
low broad fireplace, which is surrounded by the 
story of Joseph and his Brethren, told in wood 
carvings. At least they say so. I own I can my- 
self only see confused groups of figures in high relief, 
with delicious bunches of grapes and bouquets of 
flowers at intervals, connected together by scroll- 
work, that may mean tendrils. Over the fire- 
place hangs forward the portrait of Lady Rosamond 
Bletch worth, the alleged great beauty of the family. 


33 


TIIE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


And you can still sec the pout of the lips, and the 
wondering arch of the eyebrows, and the waspish 
waist. Time has been cruel to all the rest. Facing 
this, over the door (as you will see, on turning round), 
is a pair of antlers of extraordinary span and I don’t 
know how many tines; and they do say (though I 
am suspicious of family notions of this kind) there is 
somewhere a letter from King James’s own secre- 
tary, referring to a present of venison that was made 
by royalty to Sir Richard Bleytchworthe in the year 
of his mayoralty, and to the very antlers in proof! 
But it is not to these old chairs, you may be sure — 
no, not even to Mr. Dell’s studio, though Grace has a 
missive for him there — she has conferred on him, in 
her pity for bachelorhooded helplessness, the unima- 
ginable blessing of putting everything to rights, with- 
out hurting a hair of the heads of the incipient cherubs 
and Yenuses there growing up; no, it is to the other 
end of the room Grace leads the way. There, where 
all is light, and colour, and delicate suggestion for the 
refreshment of spirit and frame. Through that vast 
three-sided expanse of window there seems hardly any 
actual end to the room. It melts into the garden and 
the blue sky beyond, which are, in a word, visible 
fairy-land, veiled only by those flower-studded lace 
curtains, which the breeze lifts — oh ! so luxuriously 
and displayingly from the ground as though the bet- 
ter to look at them, and then lets them fall again with 
gentle measured motion, that will not even shake off 
the ripe seeds of the mignonette that perfumes the 
whole air from the long boxes within the window 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


39 


sills. But now the breeze grows bolder, again lifts 
them — nay, tries to carry them off through the open 
window, but fails and lets them sail back with sweet 
gifts and messages from the lawn, sending them the 
odor as of a breath — a tender sigh sent to the lovely 
moss rose in yonder splendid porcelain vase from its 
companion left behind, as lovely and as lonely, to 
bloom on the parent twig. But look upon the ceiling 
of this bay ; ay, it is there the mediaeval artist has 
exhausted his skill and power, for there it could be 
so looked on and enjoyed. That pendant is a mira- 
cle of airy lightness and construction, hanging directly 
over the centre of the round inlaid table, which is 
itself a study, for the innumerable pieces and the in- 
finite variety of hues and forms of the patterns: the 
whole made from the timbers and carvings that were 
preserved by Sir Richard from the wreck of the other 
parts of the mansion. But it is not the table itself, nor 
the pendant over it, nor the deep rich colours of the 
foreign carpet beneath, so happily contrasted with the 
polished plainness of the rest of the floor, so moss-like 
to tread, and in which Mr. Dell’s chair has its legs 
embedded — no, it is not these things we care now to 
dwell on; who could, after the first glimpse of all 
that which the table bears? The sparkling spring 
water in the costly crystal jug, so exquisite in form, 
and balanced on the opposite side by its twin sister, 
filled with claret ; the tender, almost yellow hue of 
the crust of the home-made little odd-shaped loaves; 
the pigeon-pie, with a crust so light that it might have 
been put together by a feather-touch, instead of by 


40 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


the hands that will fall so heavily upon poor Meggy 
(this, O philosophers! is but one of the inscrutable 
mysteries, and equally inscrutable compensations of 
Nature), the lettuce fresh and crisp, and glittering wet 
from its bath'; the tall blanc-mange shaking and 
shivering for its life (tempting the mouth by its very 
cowardice) ; the pile of strawberries — ah, take one, if 
but to know the flavour that can be added to such a 
size by good gardening ; the raspberries, buried and 
bleeding beneath a burden of clotted cream ; the dish 
of junket, and the piece of fresh honeycomb, with the 
honey streaming out like the waters of some mimic 
land of Goshen. Ah, Mr. Dell, there is, indeed, I 
fear, something on your mind if you can be insensible 
to all this ! And those flowers overtopping all ! shed- 
ding their last breath thus that you may draw yours 
somewhat more luxuriously ; that you may, while 
eating in their presence, turn the bread into the ripe 
cornfield and poppy fringe, the water into running 
and babbling streams, the cream into daisied and 
gold-capped meadows, the lettuce and the fruit into 
that universal garden of the world God has given us, 
and from which Grace has plucked them for the mere 
chance of your gratification. Ah, Grace, if ever 
woman knew how to take measure of a man’s tastes 
and fancies, you did now. - Beware, Mr. Dell ! you 
have a harder task before you than you have chosen 
to think. 

He cannot eat — at least he thinks not ; but then he 
remembers it will be harder still to talk, so he accepts 
Grace’s smiling and good-humoured invitation (so oft 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


41 


repeated) to take something. He takes just what she 
pleases, a little pigeon-pie and a glass of wine, and 
he dallies with both, very much in the manner of that 
mysterious lady, when she took rice at her husband’s 
supper-table, in the Arabian Nights. And at last 
Grace, tired of being so warmly thanked, and so often 
called “ Cousin,” or “ Dear Cousin,” instead of the 
more familiar appellation Grace, began to take the 
initiative. 

Her voice broke on the ear like low- thrilling music, 
measured and artificial perhaps, but the sentences 
coming one after another like so many musical ca- 
dences of speech. One might listen to her with plea- 
sure (in certain moods) without stopping to reflect 
upon the meaning of a single word she said. In fact, 
Mr. Dell himself would have chosen that precise mode 
of listening now, had it been practical and right ; 
unfortunately it was neither. 

“Well, Cousin, if I cannot administer much com- 
fort to your bodily wrants, let me see whether I have 
the art to be more successful in another direction.” 

“ Nay, my dear Grace,” began he, apologetically, 
fearing she was hurt. 

“ See — here is a letter from your uncle, Sir George 
Dell, which arrived shortly after your departure, and 
which I opened as you wished me. Referring to your 
application to him, respecting an opening into public 
life, he writes most gratifyingly ; in fact, he makes no 
doubt he can obtain for you the position of private 
secretary to one of the ministers. But there is a 
difficulty.” 


42 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Ha ! ” broke in Mr. Dell, quite cheerily under the 
circumstances. 

“ He thinks you should be in parliament.” 

“Oh, undoubtedly. Yes, Grace, he is quite right, 
as I could soon show you. It’s a thousand pities, 
certainly, to lose so fine a chance, but — ” 

“ It is, indeed ; after our long consultations, and 
plannings, and hopings, and despairings about the 
compassing of this first step — ” 

“But you know, Grace, ’tis the part of all true 
philosophy to resign one’s self to what is clearly una- 
voidable.” 

“ Come, come, you must look lady Fortune more 
boldly in the face, or she never will be won. You 
do not know, my dear cousin, half her bounty to 
you.” 

“Indeed ! ” said Mr. Dell, and the tone contrasted 
oddly with that cheery “ Ha ! ” with which he heard 
there was a difficulty. 

“ Yes : Mr. Nicholas Rudyard, the brewer of Lea- 
tham, called here one day to see you, and we had a 
good deal of chat together. Knowing your views 
and wishes, I sounded him. At first he was very shy, 
but when I dropped a word or two about Sir George 
Dell’s letter he changed at once, and before he left the 
Hall he had not only promised you his support and 
influence, but pledged himself for your success, at the 
next election.” 

“ Is it possible ! Why, really this seems like — ’’ 
and there Mr. Dell started up, took a turn or two 
through the room, Grace calmly but steadfastly watch- 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


43 


ing liim. Presently he returned, and resumed his 
seat. 

“ My dear Grace, I cannot tell you how grateful I 
feel in my heart for all your kindness and forethought, 
and for your brilliant success in my behalf; but, 
were there no other objections, consider one moment 
this : you know my fortune is very limited, and that 
elections are very costly.” 

“ Mr. Rudyard pledges himself there shall be no 
heavy expenses.” 

“ Heavy ! he is a rich man. He would probably 
think a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds, every 
now and then, a mere trifle.” 

“ He guaranteed to me the whole should not exceed 
three hundred pounds. Come, dismiss all these excel- 
lent precautions, all these unnecessary alarms. Take 
and enjoy your good fortune. You have now your 
own fate in youi‘ hands — power, influence, wealth, 
splendour, possibly high rank, certainly a most envi- 
able career, and one that will give you boundless 
opportunities for doing good in your own way ; all, 
in fact, that we have both so long dreamed of and 
talked over in this room.” 

Again Mr. Hell got up, and strode up and down 
the room, and Grace saw her advantage. 

“ If you were one of those men fit only to manage 
a parish instead of legislating for a nation, who knew 
not how wisely to spend the wealth that may be 
slowly acquired, who would use corruptly or selfishly 
the great social advantages that God places in their 
hands in trust for others, who have no inner strength 


44 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


for the work, but must be propped, and buttressed, 
and stimulated from without — ” 

“ Which is decidedly my case, I own. It is useless 
any longer for me, Grace, to disguise the fact, that all 
my ambitious aspirations have died out. What I 
might be if I threw myself into public life with stern 
determination to succeed, I know not. I have vanity 
enough to acknowledge, if you will push me too 
hardly, that my belief is I should succeed. But why 
should I peril my present content — and — ” he was 
going to say “ happiness,” but something instinctively 
noble and kindly arrested the word, for he knew he 
was shattering into terrible ruin the dreams of his 
cousin ; his cousin whom he fondly loved as a cousin, 
whom he had thought once he loved not merely in 
that capacity, the able, brilliant, beautiful, musical- 
voiced woman before him, who had been labouring 
for his advancement so patiently, while he had been 
• — but his inward thought stopped there, and he 
resumed his discourse. 

‘‘No,” said he, after a pause, “why should I 
peril all that I now possess to embark in a new 
and thorny career ? Are not my duties marked out 
for me ? To live the life of the country gentleman, 
become a magistrate — I hope an efficient one; try 
to improve my neighbours, tenants, and labourers, by 
the same essential processes that will improve my- 
self; help the poor, educate the ignorant, cherish 
the aged ; work steadily at something to fill up my 
leisure hours. You know I dream of art, and that 
dream is worth pursuing, ay, even if one knows 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


45 


from the outset it will only be a dream; and these 
things done, why should I not then enjoy what 
God’s bountiful hand has given me ? Come, Grace, 
own that I am practically in the right. Give up 
labouring in the cause of such an ingrate as I have 
proved myself; but do it, so that I may feel at 
ease. Denounce with me, as you cherished with me, 
these feverish dreams of political and public life.” 

“And how would you tempt me to do so?” in- 
quired Grace, with a tone and look impossible to 
analyse, but which made the blood rush into Mr. 
Dell’s conscious face, and then when it retreated there 
was a darkening gloom. Luckily Jean came in at 
that moment with coffee, and both the disputants 
were awhile silenced. 

Mr. Dell bent low over the strawberry -stalks in 
his plate, measuring, perhaps, the ground he had yet 
to traverse to get into a harbour of peace and mental 
satisfaction, when he suddenly raised his head, as if 
listening to some distant sound; his eye kindled, his 
face brightened with its natural joyousness, and, for- 
getting everything else, he started up, ran to the win- 
dow, and leaned far out. In an instant the blind 
was withdrawn, #as he called aloud — 

“ Grace, Grace ! quick ! the hounds are out ! See !” 
She went and stood behind him, her lip curling as 
she marked his delight. They passed at one corner 
on the right, so near to the Hall that he could hear 
their hard breathing and the rustle of the dry dock- 
leaves as they plunged among them. And then he 
grasped her arm, and held his breath, while, with 


46 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

blood-red tongues drooping to the ground and blood- 
shot eyes, the dogs for one moment crossed his sight. 
Presently a horseman also passed, and gave a cheery 
cry to Mr. Dell, whom he recognised as he galloped 
along. Grace’s lip curled still more markedly, and a 
smile of bitter scorn passed over her face, and 
she felt that in mind and wishes he was no longer 
hers, possibly no longer hers in any way that she 
would care to value. When they returned to the 
-table she determined to bring matters to a speedy 
crisis. But Mr. Dell had by this time righted him- 
self, and anticipated her. 

“ Grace,” said he, with his old frank laugh, heard 
for the first time to-day, “ here has been a deal of 
beating about the bush — I mean on my part ; so let 
me say at once, I came back determined to tell you 
honestly that for some time past I had changed my 
views of life, and had determined to settle, and — ” 
here Grace’s penetrating look fell upon him with 
tenfold intensity, and though he could not stand her 
gaze he finished his sentence — “ and marry.” And 
then hurrying along as though over very, very tender 
ground, he continued, “ And you too, Grace, will, I 
hope, ere long follow my example and find some 
man worthy of you, and whom I may look on as a 
brother.” 

Grace listened in silence. The coffee-cup shook 
just a little in the fine, long, jewelled hand, but that 
was all. She looked at him a moment, rose, and left 
the room. Mr. Dell knew well it was her habit to 
conceal emotion, and he feared she was much moved. 


A DEE AM DISPELLED, 


47 


Why ? Unhappily he could not conceal from himself 
that there had been for a long time past a sort of 
tacit feeling— understanding it could not be called, 
for no word of love had ever passed between them — - 
that they would, in all probability, become man and 
wife. And while Grace was near him, and her mental 
and rousing influence was upon him, he had grown 
accustomed to look upon a future of that kind as very 
desirable ; at times even he had fancied he loved 
Grace. But it was precisely because he had never 
felt sure of that, that he had said nothing to her. 
Then, too, he began by degrees to fancy she loved 
power better than anything else, and that did not draw 
him nearer to her in heart. As he now looked after 
her he began to question himself, Ilad he done her 
injustice in that respect? Did she, after all, really 
love him ? The momentary fear of that gave him a 
deeper pang than he had ever before experienced. 
Alas ! he had himself learnt something recently on 
such subjects, which made his sympathies keen for 
Grace, He thought to himself— should he follow her ? 
What was she' doing now ? what saying to herself? 
what thinking of him, for whom she had evidently 
worked with such devotion? But he could not 
answer these questions. And while he paused, and 
said, “ Well, I have got the worst over; all I have 
now to do is to soften the blow,” other, and for some 
time forgotten, associations came back upon him in a 
fresh wave of delight. He gradually dropped back 
in his chair, crossed his legs, put the tips of his fingers 
together, half-closed his eyes, and seemed to see 


48 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


already the end of all his trouble, nay, to feel fairly 
got to the other side of it, and to be in possession of 
the goal that he saw rising like a fair tower of guid- 
ance, high and dazzling to his yearning eyes. 

“ Cousin ! ” He started — Grace was again standing 
before him. “ I interrupted you : don’t mind it. 
You can understand I felt somewhat to see all our 
plans at an end. But no matter ; go on. As your 
cousin I feel interested in knowing your views. Come, 
you will marry, you say ; I will help you out. You 
have seen some one, and it is she who has dispersed, 
as by magic, the castles in the air we erected so slowly 
and laboriously. Is it not so ? ” 

“ It is.” What further confessions he might have 
made I cannot say, for the door now opened, and 
Grace’s mother, Mrs. Addersley, entered. Poor Mr. 
Dell! he was glad to see her for once, though she 
was no favourite of his. She had an Indian air about 
her face and dress, dark-complexioned, shrivelled 
yellow hands, covered with rings — hands that had, on 
more than one occasion, taken up the whip for a negro 
slave ; little beady, black eyes, with a restless, imper- 
tinent stare, and was wrapped in furs and shawls even 
on this, "one of the most glorious of summer days. Mr. 
Dell hastened to meet her, to shut down the windows, 
and place her in his own seat. After some brief wel- 
comings he said to her, suddenly : 

“ I have been telling Grace that, for some time 
past, I had come to the determination to marry and 
settle.” 

Quite right ! quite right ! ” interrupted M s. 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


49 


Addersley : “I knew it .would come to that at last. 
I told Grace so when I saw her pining away in secret 
about you — ” 

“ Mamma ! ” exclaimed Grace. 

“ Oh, Mr. Dell won’t mind knowing now ; of course 
he’ll be glad. Well. I congratulate you both, and 
God bless you ! How very cold it is ! Perhaps you’ll 
excuse me, or come up to my room by and bye. I 
know you don’t want me.” So, with a self-satisfied 
laugh, she hurried off, leaving Mr. Dell in a state of 
embarrassment such as I will not attempt to paint ; 
and as to Grace — but she always was more or less 
inexplicable, and she had reasons now for not even 
quite understanding herself. After a while, however, 
she rose from the distant seat in the corner to which 
she had retreated, came to the chair on which Mr. 
Dell sat, and with wonderful courage and straight- 
forwardness said to him, as she rested her hand on his 
shoulder, and one hot tear rolled down her cheek, 
which was just a little more suffused with colour than 
usual — 

u I know what you feel, my own dear, kindly, good 
cousin. Mamma has done me irreparable harm by 
her random thoughts and careless speech.” 

Mr. Dell rose too, the light fingers still resting on 
his shoulders, while his hand took her other hand 
very tenderly, and he said, “ Before you go any fur- 
ther tell me this; in satisfaction to my own conscience 
and future peace of mind, I ask you solemnly, and 
desiring only the truth — have I done aught towards 
you that is unbecoming a gentleman or a man of 
3 


50 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


honour? have I knowingly in any way misled 
you ?” 

11 No — no — no. But bear with me a few moments. 
When, after my father’s death, your offer of a new 
home reached me in a foreign land, it touched me 
very deeply. Through all the subsequent voyage I 
could not but daily read, and re-read, that kindly 
letter, so full of manly sympathy, and guess and 
speculate as to you, your mind, your home, your 
future. We met. I found you — well, I will not 
dwell on those, my first impressions, for I mastered 
them, in order that I might study you dispassionately. 
I admired you much, and I saw, I think, more truly 
than any one else, your talent, and fire, and rare 
powers. But I saw they were running to waste. I 
tried to show you this, and succeeded, as I believed. 
And then we communed together, and I learned from 
you, oh ! infinitely more in a thousand ways than I 
had taught you. By degrees I could think of nothing, 
dream of nothing, but your interest. The world 
seemed to have nothing in it of the slightest value 
that did not — not — I — that is — ” 

Here the musical cadences, which had been indeed 
very, very sweet (Mr. Dell was more carried away by 
them and their meaning than he would have liked to 
acknowledge), suddenly stopped ; and the fair form 
quivered with a long and still repressed emotiQn. At 
last there was a passionate gush of tears, and a cry 
of agony; and she was breaking away from Mr. 
Dell’s side, but that he arrested and supported her, 
his arm now gliding round her waist. 


A DREAM DISPELLED. 


51 


11 Oh, Grace !” said he, with an emotion scarcely less 
than her own. “ Oh, Grace ! had I known all this 
earlier, things might have ended differently ; but now, 
you know, it is impossible ?” 

“ Impossible !” replied Grace, looking round at him 
with a pathos and an inexpressible tenderness in her 
voice. “Ah, cousin! is it — really impossible?” Poor 
Grace, she would not anticipate the impending blow 
— but it came now. 

“ I am married. My wife comes home to-night.” 


CHAPTEE IY. 


MISS ADDERSLEY TAKES UP THE KEYS FOR THE LAST 
TIME. 

Yes, Mr. Dell was married. There was the secret 
that he had come home to tell unto Grace, before 
bringing the bride ; and which he had found it so 
hard to declare as he saw the welcome that she had 
prepared for him ; as he heard of the success with 
which she had prompted his ambitious aims ; as he 
learned through the unexpected revelations of Mrs. 
Addersley, that Grace really loved him ; and, wor^t 
of all, as he learned it in Grace’s own presence. 

Well, the truth was out at last, she knew it now : — 
lie was married. The absences from home that had 
occurred so frequently of late, under the name of 
sketching tours, were all explained. Yes, there was 
an end for ever to the day-dreams in which Grace 
Addersley had for a long time indulged ; day-dreams 
in which she had seen Mr. Dell, her husband, rising, 
step -by step, to high office in the government; ani- 
mated and sustained by her skill and determination ; 
and herself, through him, exercising, by virtue of her 
talent and beauty and position, a political power and 


TAKING UP THE KEYS FOR THE LAST TIME. 53 


a social influence that were not a jot the less sweet to 
her in idea that they would not be formally recog- 
nised. For the reality of power she cared much ; for 
the semblance very little. But both were gone at a 
blow ! The honoured and brilliant wife of the future 
minister of England was reduced suddenly to her 
true self — Grace Addersley. The maiden love that 
had advanced so far as almost to woo, was rejected. 
The ambition that was to have mastered the world, 
had failed miserably in its first attempt to cope with 
one single unit of it. At the precise moment when 
she had brought all things to a climax of promise, 
and waited her reward — he had married another ! 
Grace Addersley heard as one might hear a death- 
knell. She fell — crushed utterly. Sick in heart ; 
humiliated to the extremest depth of humiliation by 
her self-exposures — made so uselessly ; burning with 
a wild sense of outrage; shaken by tumultuous 
throbs of a blind instinct of vengeance ; — but pre- 
serving still, characteristically, a kind of tower of 
outlook in her soul, from whence she could survey 
the war of her own frenzied passions, and guide them 
in any direction that might still whisper — hope ! 

How that last half-hour passed neither Grace nor 
Mr. Dell could ever accurately recall. Her silence 
was terrible. The very air seemed to grow thicker 
and thicker as Mr. Dell waited ; listening for words 
that came not : for some manifestations of life, that 
were not vouchsafed to him, by that rigidly -fixed 
upright form, as it sat in the chair into which it had 
dropped as the fatal words were heard. He began to 


54 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


feel suffocated. He tried, himself, to break the silence, 
but could not. His tongue clove to the roof of his 
mouth. A butterfly came flickering in through the 
window — passed between and round them both — set- 
tled for a moment on his sleeve — and went off again 
— and the very fact was almost unknown to him — 
until it revived in his subsequent recollections, and 
told him how they had both sat there, under the ter- 
rible shadow of that revelation. 

But oh — the relief at last when Grace came up to 
him holding out both her hands ; — and, wonderful to 
say, letting loose her silvery laugh! — rarely heard, 
but always making a kind of light in the place where 
it was — and saying to him : — 

“ Cousin, why did you not tell me at first ? Why 
not have spared me all this foolish exhibition ? But 
come — we are cousins still, are we not ?” Mr. Dell 
clasped and fervently pressed the long-fingered hand 
— and felt an almost devout thankfulness that his 
trouble was over. 

“ But now, cousin,” continued Grace, “ one last 
word. This is not a topic for us ever to speak of 
again ; ever — if we can help it — think of again. I 
am but a woman — and have a woman’s weakness. You 
will not let the knowledge of the extent of that weak- 
ness pass from you ?” There was so much of beauty 
in the face, music in the tones, and pathetic expression 
in the manner with which this was said, that Mr. Dell 
would have given worlds to have assured her that he 
did not — could not — recognise the “weakness” she 
spoke of in her love for him — and that he would feel 


TAKING UP THE KEYS FOR THE LAST TIME. 55 


himself the basest of wretches if he ever allowed 
the faintest suspicion of the fact to reach others ; but 
he was obliged to content himself by showing what 
he felt in his broken husky voice and eloquent ges- 
tures, and by an appeal to her in return : — 

“ Grace, you will show me that all this is — really 
ended — as — we both — now — wish it to be, by conti- 
nuing to look upon this as your home? — unless, 
indeed, you would for your own happiness’ sake pre- 
fer to go away.” 

“ Well — no — cousin — I should not like to acknow- 
ledge matters had gone so far — do not be too vain ! 
Enough, we understand each other.” Again she held 
out the fair hand, and again Mr. Dell clasped it in his 
own. 

“ Well-- now, tell me — your wife — where have you 
left her ?” 

“ At the little wayside inn at Upper Leatham.” 

“ Make haste, then ! Leave me to prepare. Be 
assured she shall not complain of her welcome.” She 
laid one hand on the bell-rope, and took a great bunch 
of keys from a basket with the other, and as she went 
out of the door she looked at them with a strange 
cold smile wreathing her lips. 


CHAPTER Y. 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 

It was at twelve, the first morning of the following 
week, that Mr. Short had promised to bring home 
the new side-saddle for the mare ; and sure enough, 
just as the old Dutch clock had done striking, he ap- 
peared at the kitchen door with it on his arm. 

Though the window and the outer door of the 
dairy were open, that kitchen was like an oven just 
then. Cook, in her apron of office, and with her cap 
pinned up by the strings in a jaunty way at the top . 
of her head, was surrounded by trays of unbaked 
pastry, dishes of currants, and little round baskets, 
some stained and empty, and some still uncovered, 
with the fruits of various kinds appearing through, 
the layers of leaves, just as Proby, the gardener, had 
brought them in. Meggy, who bore more than one 
white impression of Cook’s floury hand on her back, 
sat hanging as it were upon her sovereign’s dread 
looks, and buttering the while the patty-pans that 
were piled up in a heap before her. It was an awful 
time in the kitchen just then. Rebecca, the pert 
housemaid, knew it, and did not loiter, when she had 


TIIE NEW MISTRESS. 


57 


occasion to look in — or when, as Cook put it, “ she 
must flaunt her red ribbons there to see what was a 
going for rads.” 

“ Morning, Cook ! How do you find yourself after 
the storm last night?” said Mr. Short, with a gracious 
smile, his lips growing very fresh as he looked round 
on the unusual display of good things. 

“How then, take this tray — not you, Meg, you set 
still if so be it’s possible. Here, you what’s-’er-name, 
if you an’t afeared o’ meltin’ them wax fingers o’ 
yours — for it’s rather warm — take this tray, and set it 
down on the stones in the dairy — d’ye hear ? What 
are you gapin’ at ? As if you’d never set eyes on a 
mortal man afore ! How, John Short, if you’d have 
the goodness to let the gal go past ?” And this was 
the only answer Cook deigned to make to the sad- 
dler’s greeting. 

“Warm here !” he again ventured to observe, put- 
ting aside his saddle and hat down on the chair by 
the door, and wiping his face with his blue handker- 
chief spotted with orange ; and apparently not other- 
wise troubling himself about Cook’s change of manner. 

“ What !” cried Cook, turning to Rebecca, “ what, 
a standin’ playin’ with them purty fingers agin, are 
you ? Don’t you hear the man a spellin’ for his beer? 
And can’t you get his pot down ?” 

Mr. Short’s pot was a yellow pint mug with a brown 
rim round it, representing fat little Bacch uses sporting 
with bunches of grapes as big as themselves. John’s 
eye twinkled at the remark. He had got to love that 
mug. So many and many a time bad he drunk from 


58 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


it, that it had become practically in his eyes a kind of 
perennial fountain — flowing over — or, what was the 
same thing, whenever he wanted it, with John’s earthly 
nectar, good strong ale. Cook now rubbed the clinging 
paste from her fingers with a handful of dry flour, 
snatched the mug from Kebecca’s hand, and let her- 
self down the cellar stairs. Then Mr. Short, seeing all 
fair before him, took up his coat tails, and slowly 
and cautiously lowered himself into a chair, at his old 
place at the end of the dresser ; and while he looked 
about him, and sniffed enjoyingly and refreshingly 
the damp casky smell from the cellar, and looked 
upon the fresh brown loaf, and the crumbling cheese 
— richer even than his own imagination painted it, 
and thought of the long walk he had had through the 
hot sun, he sighed a sigh of deep anticipatory gratifica- 
tion, while chuckling in his secret thoughts over his 
own forethought and skill in securing the friendship 
of the mistress of the Hall-kitchen. He didn’t mind 
Cook’s hasty words, or changeable moods; and he 
did very much approve of her excellent October 
brewed ale. He turned to look at Meggy, never 
dreaming it was she who, before his coming, when 
Cook’s back was turned, had made a desperate charge 
at the dresser drawer, torn out that snowy cloth, and 
spread it, with shoulders convulsively heaving up 
and down. She now sat demurely quiet; her red 
face screwed as far round on her neck as it could well 
go, to get away from the place where he sat, as though 
in her crazy imagination she felt his solemn puzzled 
look fixed upon her all the time. 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


59 


“ Well, I do like a drop of good beer,” said John 
Short, emphatically, as Cook, returning, placed the 
full mug before him. 

Cook smiled a grim smile. 

“ And I will say there isn’t better beer in all the 
county,” and John took hold of the handle. 

“ Malt and hops, Cook ; genuine malt and hops, 
and plenty of ’em — that’s my motto.” He blew aside 
the froth. “ None of your gimcrack drinks for me — 
your wines, or your foreign and Frenchified liquors, 
with all sorts of queer names. Good health, Cook, 
and may you always brew ale like this.” He drank 
— deeply, for John was like a waggon on a slope — 
that must go some distance when fairly put in posi- 
tion, but he paused with a strong effort, backed him- 
self as it were, set down the mug — rose to his feet, 
and looking unutterable things at Cook, murmured to 
himself with another long look at Cook, obviously 
accompanying some internal blessing. 

“Tut — tut, man,” exclaimed Cook shortly, and 
plunging the great poker into the fire, with a pang of 
remorse, “ get your bit, man — get your bit, you’re wel- 
come. But don’t set there speechifying as if you was 
at a meetin’. You loses the only good pint you’ve 
got when you finds your tongue.” Cook had had 
her say — she had enjoyed her joke — and felt she had 
been thoroughly successful in both. But like other 
and greater potentates, she seemed to find a dash of 
something unsatisfactory in the flavour of her triumph. 
John didn’t reproach her — didn’t quarrel with her — 
nay, he ate submissively the bread and cheese ; and 


60 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


even looked once speculatively into the half emptied 
mug — but no — his moral being couldn’t stand that — 
“no more of that!” he said to himself very deter- 
minedly, “ and now, Missus Cook,” said he also to 
himself, “ look out !” 

“I say,” cried Cook, turning to the girls with the 
poker in her hand, “ have either of you beauties bin to 
tell your master the saddle’s come ? Of course they 
haven’t!” she continued, turning to Mr. Short; 
“though they know their missus has been trailin’ 
about in her ridin’ gown all the blessed mornin’ await- 
ing it.” Rebecca jumped up, crammed her red hair 
into her cap, and hurried off through the passage door. 

“But there,” said Cook, flinging down the poker, 
so as to make poor Meggy jump affrighted to her feet. 
“ It’s the same with all the gals nowadays, they think 
heads is only made to stick fine caps on.” 

“ The new missus has got a sweet tooth, I should 
say,” remarked Mr. Short — feeling it necessary, for 
about the first time in his life, to say something ; and 
seeing another tray full of delicacies drawn from the 
oven. 

“Lord bless you, they’re going a partying it to- 
night in a small way — before they gives a grand to-do 
next week,” said Cook, sitting down with a snowy 
round board in her lap, and cutting a number of tiny 
bars from a thin piece of paste. “ I don’t say it’s any 
business o’ mine,” she went on, lowering her voice, 
“ but it wouldn’t take a witch to tell what ’ll come to 
the place with a young thing scarce out o’ pinafores, 
a missussing it about. If she’d leave things as she 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


61 


don’t understand to them as does, well and good; 
but, bless you, she’s in and out — in and out — like a 
cat before a shower, from morning to night. Why, 
Miss Addersley never showed her face only just to 
give orders for dinner. And I’ll show you what 
comes o’ people interfering where they don’t under- 
stand. Ha’ done scrunching them cherry-stones, 
Meg ! Be so good as to give her a knock o’ the head 
for me, Mr. Short. My hands itches to do it. Lor ! 
there she is off again ! Did you ever see such a bit 
of tinder in all your life ? With them stones in her 
mouth too. Plague take the gal — she’ll choke her- 
self! Put ’em out, Meg, d’ye hear ? Put ’em out, do 1 
There. Don’t let me catch you at that fun agin in a 
hurry — you young hussy — you ! Let’s see, what was 
I a saying ? If she ain’t enough to aggravate a saint. 
Oh, about the milk. She — missus I mean — stops at 
the door there, when they came in from their walk 
last night ; and says she, in a solemn way, as she 
looked upwards — Cook, we’re going to have a storm. 
I’ve seen it hanging about for days. We shall have 
it in earnest now. You’ll have to wait for to-mor- 
row’s milk for the junket I fear, but you may save 
this by taking it down below. ‘ Storm, Ma’am ?’ says 
Proby, ‘ it’s far off yet.’ ‘Oh,’ says Miss Grace, 
‘Cook understands the dairy.’ ‘Yes — -yes,’ chimes 
in master — ‘leave Cook alone for her junket.’ ‘ Well 
— we shall see,’ says missus, laughing — ‘only mind, 
Cook, whoever is right is to have their way next 
time.’ Well, this mornin’ milk’s turned ; as o’ course 
it would be after such a night as that, so she got the 


62 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


laugli on her side. But how did she know a storm 
was coming any more than me or Proby ? — why she 
didn’t ; she guessed it, as a baby might — and o’ course 
Providence couldn’t go out of its way to show her she 
were wrong. Why, what’s the matter with the man 
— are you struck ?” 

Well, yes ; John has even for a moment forgotten 
the small beer as he listens, with the bit of cheese, 
stuck on the point of his knife, remaining midway 
betwixt the plate and the open mouth. And Meggy, 
too, what is it that makes those little eyes of hers 
grow bigger than one might have supposed it was 
possible for them to become ? Even Cook, though 
she does rage inwardly to see Meggy’s trembly red 
hands for a moment doing nothing, cannot find it in 
her heart to let her own voice jar upon that sweet 
spring-like, bird-like music, that comes bubbling 
towards them. 

Sighed the snowdrops, “ Who will miss us 
When the happy air shall thrill 
At thy presence, pale Narcissus, 

At thy gleam, 0 Daffodil?” 

Like the breaking of a merry little wave among the 
rushes, her voice had risen, and then stopped, as the 
door opened, and Mrs. Dell came in ; and after telling 
Mr. Short, who stood up with knife, cheese, and 
mouth all precisely in the same relative attitude to 
each other as before, to sit still, she paused ; with one 
little foot perched on the fender, looking gravely 
down upon Meggy; who dithered and fidgeted 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


63 


about, more than ever, as she felt those bright, 
beautiful, sunny eyes glowing, as it were, upon her 
red hands and awkward body. 

The grey riding-habit fell in small precise folds 
from the dainty waist. She wore a white linen 
collar; and a bow of broad rose-coloured ribbon 
threw a faint vermilion tinge upon the dimpled chin 
— what a coquettish little chin it was! And what 
a baby -face altogether it seemed ; at least on your 
first glance, and until you met the direct gaze of 
those earnest — wonderfully earnest eyes, and felt 
instinctively the calm strength of the broad, white, 
beautiful brow above. You found it hard to tell 
then, whether that face had most of the serious wo- 
man in it, or of the playful child, that had never 
yet taken unto itself the meaning of the word — 
care. And as to all that dry, light hair of hers, 
that went rippling off in tiny waves to the one 
great swelling billow that rested on the neck, it 
seemed really to live and breathe and laugh in the 
sunshine; and to change with every expression of 
her face. On the whole, in spite of the tiny cluster 
of almost imperceptible freckles between the nose 
and the large blue eyes, I suppose the old folks 
were right in thinking their Winny a beauty. If 
so, then hers was the mischievous, dimpled, April 
morning beauty of the two-year old darling. And 
somehow the mother had never managed to disen- 
tangle her mind from the idea of that infant time ; 
and the little toddling feet, and the tiny red morocco 
shoes. “How the child grows !” she said then. At 


64 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


sixteen it was still the same, “ How the child grows!” 
And the cosy, indulgent parents petted and scolded 
her in a breath ; and talked proudly and fondly 
about her when she was away, and repeated her 
last sayings wonderingly and enjoy ingly to each 
other over the parlour fire, when she had gone to 
bed ; for they would not spoil her by letting her 
overhear them. Ho, no ; they both agreed they 
mustn’t — wouldn’t — spoil her. And the sly puss 
knew all the while every feeling of their hearts— 
every thought of their minds. And sometimes, as 
she dwelled on their little innocent self-deceptions 
about herself, she would burst out into sudden 
irrepressible laughter ; and sometimes a single tear 
would tremble long — growing bigger and bigger — 
in those great blue eyes, till it would fall ; and then 
there would be a look into the faces of the dear 
old people, that they couldn’t all understand, but 
that nevertheless made them happier, than they 
cared to acknowledge in any other way than by 
a kindred suffusion over the dull, failing, but still 
glad eyes. Mr. Dell will never know how he grieved 
and distressed those simple hearts when he asked their 
daughter’s hand, and owned he had already won her 
love. They kept to themselves their great trouble. 
They had known it must come, as one knows 
in the loveliest weather storms will some day or other 
break out ; but they hadn’t attempted to realize the 
fact till it came upon and overpowered them. They 
cried, and comforted each other as they best could 
when alone; and they laughed responsively to all 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


65 


Winny’s sallies when with her. But she understood ; 
and it was a hard struggle with her before she could 
make up her mind to marry Mr. Dell, and to leave 
them. And if he, divining her feelings, had not 
convinced her that the old people must come and live 
near them — even if they would not live with them — 
he would not have gained her consent that the mar- 
riage should be immediate. As the old relations 
were to be broken up, said he, it was best to do it 
promptly, that new ones might be established for her 
and her parents, calculated to secure their comfort and 
happiness. Of course they gave their consent to the 
marriage in exactly the same spirit they had always 
consented to every serious proposition of hers. They 
had said to the spoilt pet of five years’ old, “ Winny 
shan’t go to school if she don’t like they said now, 
“Winny must take him as her husband if she wishes 
it.” 

We have kept “ Winny” — Winifred Thorn was the 
maiden name that she had exchanged for that of Mrs. 
Bletch worth Dell — a long time, resting her little foot 
on the fender, but she has been busy all the while 
studying Meggy — to the latter’s great discomfort. 

“ Cook,” said she at last, seriously, “ what is the 
matter with Meggy, that she goes on like this ? Surely 
she can’t be well ?” 

“ Lor, Ma’am,” exclaimed Cook, crossing her tarts 
with the paste bars that she had cut out, “not well! 
You should see her eat and drink, Ma’am. Not well, 
indeed! No, no; that’s everybody’s cry, but take 
my word for it, Ma’am, it’s nothing to do with her 


66 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


health. Just look at her ! how her clothes is flung on 
her; look at her gown all awry, and her collar 
pinned anywheres over her shoulder ; and her hair all 
across and across, and partin’ nowheres in partikeler. 
Look at that for a young gal as is got her looks, I 
may say, as well as most gals nowadays ; for there’s 
bin a failin’ off o’ good looks, Ma’am, since my time. 
Well, see if it isn’t true what I’m always a tellin’ peo- 
ple, that it lays in her head, Ma’am. She’s willin’ 
enough, but her head’s always a gettin’ the better of 
her. It goes fast, and don’t keep time ; it’s just like a 
clock without a pendelum, but with its weights on, a 
ticking away in them upper works at a fearful rate, 
and making you want to bring her to a sudden stop, 
afore she runs herself down so far you’ll never get 
her up again. I should like to know what doctor, 
Ma’am, ’ll cure that ?” 

“Well, I don’t know, Cook,” said Mrs. Dell, 
repressing a half laugh, that Cook’s descriptions and 
logic had drawn forth; “but don’t you think she’s 
too much in this hot kitchen ? My head begins to 
ache already. What do you feel, Meggy ? What 
makes you behave so strangely ?” 

Meggy looked shamefaced, and muttered apologeti- 
cally, as she scraped away at a patty-pan, “ It’s only 
them rompings in my head, again, Ma’am ; they ’most 
mazes me sometimes.” 

Mrs. Dell laughed, showing all her tiny, glittering 
teeth, as she said — 

“ But tell me, what is that, Meggy? What are the 
rompings in the head ?” Then, with one of her sud- 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


67 


den fits of gravity, she drew her hand from her white 
leathern gauntlet, and bending forward laid it gently 
on the low coarse forehead. “Do you mean it 
aches? Oh, yes, it’s very hot — burning. I’m sure 
you would be better if you went out oftener, Meggy. 
Cook, let her go when she has done this morning. 
Mind you do, Meggy. It’s so nice in the lane leading 
to the common. I never saw so many flowers in my 
life as the sun has brought out there this morning 
after the storm. Come, make haste.” And the little 
fairy hand rose lightly from the tangled hair, with the 
“partin’ nowheres in partikeler;” and gathering her 
long skirt about her, Mrs. Dell went out ; tapping with 
her whip, to Cook’s annoyance, as she passed along, 
the paper bags of dry herbs hanging from the 
ceiling. 

Lanes ! flowers ! poor Meggy, what had she in 
common with such things? To be sure she raced 
through them with Cook every Sunday evening to 
Yelverton church, when she would very much rather 
have stayed at home, and have spelled out a chapter 
of her old Bible in her bed-room. But now the mean- 
ing of those words seemed something as strange and as 
beautiful to Meggy as the voice that breathed them ; 
and as the cool soft hand, the touch of which had 
thrilled through her, and quieted — it really almost 
seemed so — the terrible rompings in the poor, weary 
but ever restless brain. 

“Well, are you ready?” cried Mr. Dell, coming in 
at the passage door, with the pups yelping after him. 

Winny was standing just outside the kitchen door, 


68 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


in the courtyard, looking down upon the two cats — 
mother and daughter. 

“ Hush !” said she to him, as he approached ; and 
then, holding up her finger, “ Look ! look !” 

If Mr. Dell might have had his own way, he would 
have preferred looking at the speaker herself — the 
prettiest picture (he thought) that was ever vouchsafed 
to artist — or sweeter still to husband eyes ; but she 
had made him very obedient already : so he looked 
at the cats with due gravity and attention. 

The old mother had rolled over in her sleep on her 
back, and lay with her paws drooping languidly, and 
nose turned upwards ; while the kitten, disturbed by 
the flies, sat looking down on her parent with a staid, 
elderly air, just as she had seen her mother gaze at 
her when she had lain exhausted with running after 
her tail. 

Winny’s little round shoulders shook with sup- 
pressed laughter as she watched them, and made Mr. 
Dell shut the kitchen door to keep in the pups, who 
were making friends with Mr. Short. 

Presently the kitten, in her sleepy dignity, so far 
forgot herself as to plant her paw on her mother’s 
breast, and begin, demurely, to lick away some ima- 
ginary speck. The offended matron turned on her 
side, and gave the offending paw a gentle bite. The 
kitten drew back surprised, and held the silly little 
paw raised from the ground with a look of grave dis- 
pleasure. Then, following up her maternal part, she 
stretched it out again, and with her head inclined 
a little to one side, gave the mother several sharp 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


69 


taps in quick succession on the ear, which so com- 
pletely roused her that she started up with an angry 
moan ; and the kitten, forgetting her dignity, made 
two or three sideway bounds across the court ; dashed 
round the sun-dial ; met her mother coming the other 
way, and then the two went tearing round and round, 
till the thoughtful matron, reflecting probably that 
the mad little minx would dash her brains out against 
the stone pillar, if she didn’t mind, stopped, and went 
back growling to the step ; and there she saw the 
kitten quiet, and peeping at her in a pretended fright 
from behind the dial. 

“ Come, come,” said Mr. Dell, laughing heartily at 
Winny’s childlike enjoyment, “ Grace is waiting in 
the lane to see you have your first riding lesson. 
Mr. Short,” he called, looking in at the kitchen door, 
“will you see the saddle put on the mare, and let 
George bring her after me ?” He then whistled to 
the pups, who were waiting for the rind of Mr. 
Short’s last bit of cheese ; and he and Winny and the 
pups all crossed the court, and went round towards 
the lane, followed very quickly by George (the 
coachman and groom) with the mare. But if 
anybody cared about the riding lesson, certainly it 
was not Winny. That lane, with its trees, and 
flowers, and birds, and delicious and ever-varying 
wildnesses, perfectly captivated her. It was as evi- 
dently impossible for Winny to walk through it 
like Grace or any other rational being, as it would 
have been for Grace to have laid her hand on Meg- 
gy’s head in the manner and feeling I have de- 


70 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


scribed. It is true Winny bad been long ago 
sbamed out of running after butterflies; but still, 
when one — a rare and superb fellow it must be 
owned — did start from the hedge beside them, she 
would stop and gaze, shading her eyes with her hand 
from the sun, wistfully watching him till he was out 
of sight. If any stray homely scent, such as of the 
southernwood, came across them, reminding her of 
the little garden at Laurel Cottage, where roses and 
cabbages might often be found growing together, she 
must needs find out the stunted bush (some castaway 
from a neighbouring garden), and bury her face in 
it for an instant, and clasp her arms round it, as 
heartily and fondly as though it was her own buxom 
mother, or hale old Thorn himself ; and in truth it 
was of them she thought more than of the flowers 
that had so vividly recalled them to her heart. It 
was a perfume of home that then entered into her 
very soul. Her companions waited, and watched, 
and said to themselves — Grace impatiently, Mr. Dell 
delightedly — they never should get her through the 
lane on to the common, where the lesson was to be 
given. Every loose wreath of honeysuckle that 
greedy unkindly hands had loosened from the hedge, 
as they rifled it of its latest blossoms, and left trailing 
across the path, must be lifted up, and twined once 
more tenderly around the supporting boughs. Every 
hollow tree must be peeped into — oh, they might 
laugh; but they didn’t know what discoveries she 
had often made in old tree trunks. And then when 
they came upon the first convolvulus of the season — 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


71 


one solitary and very early flower — that had just 
opened in all its white, stainless, fragile beauty, in a 
little nook of green leaves, she stopped, her hands 
pressed together palm to palm, and heaved a little 
sigh of pleasure and admiration before they could get 
away. 

The oddest part of the business was to see her 
regardlessness, if not actual unconsciousness, of the 
presence of her husband and of Grace; so far, at 
least, as it might be supposed to check or in any way 
control her self-manifestations. She had evidently 
been so used to express her pleasure and her pain — 
just as either emotion rose — that she would have felt 
that something was wrong in the framework of things 
if she might not continue to do so now ; and certainly 
the last thought to enter her mind would be that she 
was thus exciting either surprise or admiration, or 
any other particular sentiment in those around her. 
At that moment, however — if never before — there 
were two persons, whose eyes and thoughts bent 
towards her in the deepest study of her character ; 
one of these persons feeling every instant a kind of 
fresh sense of the wonderful secret he possessed, and 
might not whisper of to the world — a secret that 
raised his whole frame, and kindled strange light in 
his eyes, and gave a softness to his smile when he 
spake to the humblest person; the secret of a happi- 
ness too great for the world to understand ; and 
which he could not talk of even to her who had 
opened such a heaven unto his soul ; the other per- 
son measuring, weighing, testing, comparing ; asking 


72 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


if this was the being that had destroyed life for her, 
and as Grace believed, for him ; speculating how long 
such love might last ; what were its conditions, temp- 
tations, dangers ; and letting the thoughts gloomily 
stretch on and on, till the vista became too dark, and 
perplexing, and horrible ; and until it was a relief — a 
sensible relief-— to turn suddenly back, and listen 
once again to the laugh that racked her soul with 
pain, while her ears confessed the music ; and to 
meet Mr. Dell’s eyes, as he glanced towards her, seek- 
ing a look of sympathy in answer. 

And that look came ; though as suddenly and as 
unexpectedly as a beam of light might come from the 
skies on a dull day. Whatever there might be of 
effort in its origin was, however, unnoticed — un- 
dreamed of by Mr. Dell ; and so it gave him a sense 
of inexpressible gladness ; for it said not only that 
Grace was herself again, but that she and he would 
be able to resume their old friendship and intellec- 
tual relations. In truth, he had had no faith in the 
reality of Grace’s love for him, though he entirely 
believed in her belief of that love. Then he was too 
much preoccupied to think a great deal about Grace 
or any one person in the whole world just now, 
except the little enchantress herself, whom he had 
snatched away from the cottage of the Thorns. And 
so, what with the thought on the one hand that did 
actuate him, and what with the excuse for want of 
thought on the other, he brought himself to believe 
that the best way to treat his fair cousin would be to 
forget, or appear to forget, all the recent incidents as 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


73 


rapidly as he could, by displaying his old and natural 
frankness towards her. And certainly he was thus far 
right — that no course could have been so conducive 
to the comfort and self-respect of a woman, who 
really desired to dismiss for ever from her own mind 
the momentary humiliation she had subjected herself j 
to, and whose first concern would be to glide as 
simply, and so to speak, gracefully, as she might, 
over the narrow strip of time that intervened between 
the present transition state of feeling and position to 
that future one, when the old untroubled, uncompro- 
mised peace would be regained. He had asked him- 
self how he would like to be treated had he been in 
Grace’s position ; and his conduct to her was the cor- 
dial honest answer. 

“ I do not wonder at your admiration — your love 
— now,” said Grace, in low meaning accents. Mr. 
Dell’s reply, after a moment’s pause, was to stretch 
out his hand to Grace, and to clasp hers ; and then 
to turn away, and try unnoticed to brush off the 
water-drops that were gathering in his eyes. “ But 
you have a responsibility upon you ; she is not strong 
in body, I fear. God has not given her everything. 
And then, her education—” 

“ Ah, yes. I want to talk to you, Grace, about 
that. Her parents — good people they are, I assure 
you ; you would like them very much — are retired 
farmers, never themselves knowing much more than 
to read and write, and keep the humble accounts of 
their farm. And though they have proposed to give 
Winny a good education, and have certainly paid 
4 


74 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


for a fair one, they have utterly spoiled her in that 
respect. She has, it seems, always disliked school, 
and formal teaching of every kind ; though, as you 
see, she has been a tolerably attentive student in the 
great open-air school of Nature ; and has developed 
to no slight extent, in her desultory way, whatever was 
most true, or beautiful, or energetic, in her instincts.” 

“You won’t be hurt or offended if I tell you the 
truth in this matter ? ” 

“ My dear Grace ! Let me say at once, I thought 
much of her educational deficiencies before marriage ; 
much more than I do now. Indeed, I believed them 
then to be more serious than I do now. Acting there- 
fore with my eyes open, should I not be a poor crea- 
ture if I could be hurt in any way to hear the truth 
from a friend ; or should I feel unprepared quietly to 
do whatever may be requisite to make my wife appear 
unto the world vrhat she really is? ” Grace did not 
need any addition to the sentence to tell her in what 
sort of estimation Mr. Dell held his wife ; his tone 
and manner were sufficiently eloquent. “Yes,” he 
continued, after a pause, “ I know what you would 
say ; you have noticed her want of knowledge in mat- 
ters of history, science, and general literature ; and 
her naivete in utterly ignoring her ignorance.” 

Grace nodded, with a smile. 

“ And you dread for me — ” 

“ And for herself.” 

“ True, I thank you ; and for herself— the awk- 
wardness, the gossip, the scandal, the sneer, the mali- 
cious laugh. Well, I thought of all that, and I said to 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


75 


myself, ‘ A little time, and some loving help, will 
soon set that right ; and meanwhile let me never 
forget that she does not know her deficiency — I do. 
It is I, therefore, who should suffer, not she.’ And 
that, my dear cousin, is what I want to say to you 
now. Help me, if you can, and I will be grateful. 
Let us get over this little difficulty ; and meantime let 
us shield her from feeling, if possible, for one moment, 
the pain she might so easily be made to suffer. She 
will see the truth herself but too soon ; the instant, 
in fact, that she attains the first important point of 
advance ; and she will then look back startled, timo- 
rous, perhaps unhappy, if she does not see around her 
on all sides warm, loving, respectful, appreciative 
friends, as well as something more than all that in her 
husband.” 

“ Well, cousin, rely upon me. And I thank you 
for speaking thus plainly.” There was little or 
nothing in Grace’s words, but there was everything 
in the manner in which they were said. Mr. Dell’s 
previous troubles about Grace disappeared from that 
moment, and were soon, in effect, forgotten. 

Alas! could he have looked into the breast that 
now received and welcomed so freely his most secret 
thoughts, he would have paused in alarm, and have 
paused and walked away, a wiser if a sadder man. 

“ And how,” asked the voice, with its music more 
mechanical than ever, but still it was music, and very 
pleasant to listen to, “ how will you proceed ? ” 

“ Why, almost without seeming to proceed at all ; 
and yet there must be nobeating about the bush ; 


76 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


she’d understand all that, and scatter us and our 
plots to confusion in an instant.” And he laughed 
enjoyingly. 11 No, I shall say just this to her: she 
doesn’t know as much as she ought to know — who 
does? and she must become a bit of a student. 
While I study art, she must attain more general 
knowledge. And then as to the mode : there’s Mrs. 
Cairn, who teaches at the Sunday School, a lady 
born, and well educated, and who is at once very 
poor and very proud. Her son is educating for the 
ministry in Scotland. She could in a quiet way find 
out all the gaps in Winny’s attainments, and fill them 
up very respectably. Perhaps, too, we might arrange 
by and by for her to attack some foreign language, 
for at present she knows only her own.” 

“ And, if I understand you rightly, you would like 
me to make these little arrangements, in a quiet, un- 
ostentatious manner.” 

“ Exactly ; so that it shan’t be said in the village — 
‘ Mr. Dell’s wife is going to school and yet, that it 
shan’t be supposed that the very truth it concerns us 
all to realize — that life is nothing but an ever-open 
school, is one that we are ashamed of when it comes 
to our own practice. A little tact, Grace, in these 
matters, makes often the entire difference between a 
man’s winning the respect or the derision of his 
neighbours. And for my wife’s sake I am, I own it, 
very sensitive.” 

“ I will talk with Mrs. Cairn directly, and try to 
let you see by my success how fully I understand 
and reciprocate your wishes. But where is Winny 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


77 


all this time?” They had, strange to say, forgotten 
her ; — the person about whom alone their whole souls 
had been occupied. A bird was at that moment 
pouring forth a gush of such fresh, exquisite melody, 
that both listened to it, even while gazing back into 
the coverts of the lane, to get a glimpse of the wan- 
derer. They could not see her. At last the bird 
ceased. There was a pause, that seemed to extend 
through all nature, and suggest how wide an area 
had been hushed for the moment by the song. The 
bird did not sing again ; and so Winny, who had 
been rapt, her soul far away, up into the skies with 
the bird — nay, further still, up right into the heaven 
beyond, came back again with a sigh to earth, and 
thought of her companions, and started forth to seek 

them. 

Mr. Dell advanced to seek her; and holding up 
Winny’s riding-whip, which he had taken from 
her and now carried in his hand, he appeared to 
threaten her with punishment, while he demanded 
what had kept her so long. She paused a moment ; 

then, with an air of mock gravity and deprecation, 
she said, half speaking and half singing : 

“I heard a little linnet sing, 

Sweet — sweet the note and strong; 

She caught the dying words of spring, 

And poured them forth in song.” 

“ Winny, I wish you would tell me where you get 
these snatches of old song, as you call them ?” 

There was just a faint rosy hue perceptible in 


78 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Winny’s cheek as she answered, “ Oh, I read, and 
read, and forget all about the particular books after- 
wards. And I used to hear many little bits sung by 
the countrywomen, in their cottages, when I roamed 
about round Fallon, in search of adventures. And 
as to the tunes — ah, you may laugh ! but I really 
think I got as many from the birds as anywhere.” 

Mr. Dell shook his head ; and then the little feet 
gave a petulant kick at the skirts of the riding habit 
to get them out of the way, and then they stamped 
with a show of indignation, while Mr. Dell was asked, 
“ Do you mean, sir, to doubt my word ?” 

Well, to own the truth, Mr. Dell had very grave 
doubts about that word, sweet as it was, and sufficient 
as it might be for him to stand by and do battle for to 
the death, in the spirit of an old knight-errant. He 
had, in fact, formed a theory of his own by putting 
together minute little facts that he had silently 
observed. He believed, in a word, these song 
snatches were her own ; she would hear some exqui- 
site line of poetry, perhaps, or some delicious chord 
in music, and it would haunt her, till she found some 
wandering fancy or feeling that harmonized with it, 
and that she could put into simple but expressive 
words : not imitating the original, her nature was too 
individual for that, but resting on, working from it. 
And generally it was the sound, the melody — the 
tone, the feeling, she cared for, rather than any precise 
sense or object. 

“ But, Winny, why do you so constantly dwell on 
the spring ?” 


THE NEW MISTKESS. 


79 


“You an artist, and ask that? Isn’t everything in 
this world that is most beautiful a kind of spring ? 
every fresh song that a bird sings ? every new flower 
that a plant puts forth ? every bit of scent in a plant’s 
breath ? Smell this sprig of sweet-brier, if your soul 
is dull just now, and can’t understand my wise words 
without !” She paused, holding up the sprig of brier 
for him to smell too, and looking long and yearningly 
in his face. Then she said, very softly, “ Our love, 
is not that too, like them, all spring? I don’t want 
summer. Ah ! I have sometimes fancied I shouldn’t 
live to know anything more than my life’s spring.” 

Was it the gathering gloom in the sky that caused 
such a deep shade to pass over the face of the husband 
as he listened ? There was a great roaring of winds 
far above in the sky, though felt only below in a 
slight puff upon the face, and in a gentle lift of the 
hair ; was it they who seemed to open to Mr. Dell, for 
an instant, a wild and stormy future, that, however, 
disappeared as rapidly as it came ? These drops of 
rain that begin to fall, is there some secret sympathy 
betwixt them and the moisture that appears in Mr. 
Dell’s eyes, and then (as Winny watches him) in 
hers ? Suddenly he calls out — 

“ Quick, Winny, home ! A shower threatens. 
Run on fast ! I will warn Grace, and send home the 
mare, and soon be after you. Nay, go ! Never 
mind the dogs.” 

She obeyed him, tucking up her riding-dress in 
prompt fashion, and making a hood of the skirts ; and 
then, looking at Mr. Dell for a moment from within 


80 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


the cosy cell she had erected, with a smile, and then, 
with a ringing laugh, she turned ; and scudded along 
with a speed and gracefulness that no fashionable lady 
could have ventured even to attempt, though she 
would have certainly envied the power. 

“ 0 dear,” exclaimed Winny, as she stood in the old 
porch a few minutes later, divested of her riding- 
habit, and watching with Grace and Mr. Dell (who 
were afraid of her running off again) a splendid rain- 
bow, that grew by degrees fainter and fainter in the 
dull sky ; “ 0 dear, the weather’s like a spoilt child 
to-day, that somebody keeps coaxing to be good 
before it has had its cry out!” Just then Nero set 
up such a terrific barking that Winny started. 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Dell, laughing, “it’s only the post- 
man ; Nero has a mortal hatred against the man. I 
suspect our lame Mercury has been startled by the 
dog on some occasion, and has revenged himself by a 
stone or a kick. If not, Nero must think he has evil 
intentions towards us, concealed in that leathern bag 
of his.” Then they all went into the sitting-room, to 
wait the appearance of Eebecca with the Bletehworth 
Hall post-bag. 


CHAPTER YI. 


jean’s letter. 

Mrs. Dell knocked softly witli the back of her 
hand at Jean’s door. There was a step across the 
room, a quick turn of the handle, and Winny was 
obliged to shade her eyes from the sudden glare of 
light that streamed out into the dark corridor as the 
door opened, and Jean stood there. 

It was a small square room, every corner of which 
was bared to the strong light let in by the great blind- 
less window. Like Jean herself, it was scrupulously 
clean and precise, nothing more ; and unlike almost 
all the other rooms in Bletch worth Hall, it contained 
little or no old furniture. Jean did not like what she 
termed lumber ; and preferred the room to be as Mrs. 
Dell now beheld it, almost bare of comfort. A nar- 
row iron bedstead, with a narrow strip of carpet on 
the white boards beside it ; two rush-bottomed chairs ; 
a wooden table, covered with white linen, on which 
stood Jean’s work-box and Bible ; a wash-hand stand ; 
and a common square looking-glass, hung in a bad 
light, as though it were little used, and less cared for; 
— these were nearly all the articles of furniture it 
4 * 


82 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


contained. You took in the whole at a glance; and 
saw there was nothing for the eve to rest upon as 
peculiar unless it were the small oval picture over the 
mantel-piece, with its face turned to the wall, and its 
frame thick with dust. 

Such was Jean’s room, and it told her story — that 
room of hers. For, like that picture, was the one 
mystery of her heart turned from the world’s gaze ; 
and all else of Jean was left passionless and bare, 
numbed to pleasure, and almost to pain. 

“ A letter for you, Jean,” said Mrs. Dell, holding it 
out. Mrs. Dell had not yet, in her new life, got over 
the great interest she had always been accustomed to 
attach to the postman’s visit ; and that which she felt 
for herself she presumed for others. So she had her- 
self hurried to Jean with the letter she had found 
among Mr. Dell’s in the little leathern bag. 

“ For me ! I thank you, Ma’am and Jean’s eye 
ran hurriedly along the address, as she took it from 
her mistress, and closed the door again as the latter 
went away. 

A something in those cold grey eyes, as they fell on 
the letter, sank Winny’s heart; and she walked 
slowly along the passage, wondering about Jean, and 
her room, and her letter. But presently she felt one 
of the pups pulling at the handkerchief with which 
she had been teasing him in the garden ; so she held 
it up, and shook it, and worked him into great ecstasy 
of rage, and into all sorts of frenzied leaps and head- 
over-heels tumbles ; and then Winny hung the hand- 
kerchief on a nail above his reach on Mrs. Adders- 


jean’s letter. 


83 


ley’s door, which now attracted her eye in passing. 
That done, she slipped down two or three stairs, and 
stood watching and listening in a state of suppressed 
but wicked enjoyment to Mrs. Addersley’s whining 
“ Come in ! ” which grew more and more petulant at 
each jump the dog made at the door. 

J ean looked long at the letter, sitting stiffly down on 
the edge of one of the rush -bottomed chairs ; and the 
strong afternoon sun blazed in upon her, and for once 
in her life Jean longed for a dark corner just to open 
the letter in; she would not have minded coming out 
again into the light to read it. Suddenly she looked 
up from it to the picture over the mantel-piece ; some 
impulse seized her, she got up, turned the key in the 
door, and almost before she had drawn three breaths, 
with one hand pressed tightly to her side, she had 
stretched up her close-sleeved arm, and taken down 
the picture from the rusty nail, propped it against her 
work-box on the table, and sat down again, as stiffly 
upright as before, on the chair in front of it, -with the 
letter in her hand, looking from the one to the other. 

The picture was a little half-finished water-colour 
painting by Mr. Dell ; and had, like many another 
of that gentleman’s productions, been torn from its 
frame in some mood of dissatisfaction, thrust into the 
basket under the studio table, and sent away with the 
waste paper, to be wondered at by Meggy, or to light 
Cook’s fire. How this came to be saved from the 
general doom, and set in that black frame, only Jean 
herself could tell. It showed the head of a very 
young man. The fine blue, straightforward-looking 


84 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


eyes, had more in them of frankness and . courage 
than of thought ; yet the face, as a whole, did not 
give one the idea of a strong face, perhaps from an 
indescribable something of uncertainty and indefinite- 
ness about the close of the lips. 

A strange pain shot through Jean as she looked at 
it, and she asked herself bitterly why she had done 
this just now. And then her eye fell on the letter, 
and with a wild beating at her heart, that she thought 
never again to have experienced, she tore it open. 
Even then, before looking at it, she drew her hand 
across her eyes, as for a moment’s reflection, and 
wondered how it would begin. And then she read — ■ 

“ Dear, dear Jean ; ” and after that the words 
seemed to swim and flow into one another, and her 
brain grew dizzy in the hopeless effort to disentangle 
them. Perhaps some dust from the picture had got 
into her eyes. She took up the corner of her apron 
and rubbed them. Aye, a little dust, Jean, that is all. 
Did you- think that the picture which you have just 
taken down in your hand, and looked at once again 
as of old, could hang there through so long and 
weary a time, and nothing gather about it ? So Jean 
rubbed her eyes, and, at last, read the letter through 
without a single stop : 

“Chatham, July 15 th, 18—. 

“Dear, dear Jean, 

“ I know what you and mother must think of me, and I 
deserve your worst thoughts. But let this explain why you 
have not heard from me since I left Scotland. After the affair 
at St. Andrews, which I suppose soon readied Yelverton, 1 was 
so utterly sick of my life, what with that trouble and exposure, 


85 


jean’s letter. 

what with the knowledge that my mother’s hard-saved little 
fortune had disappeared in the attempt to make a gentleman of 
me, before, alas ! I had learned to be a man, that I enlisted — in 
a mad fit — into the army. It was when the Crimean war 
seemed to open a new chance for men like myself to rise from 
the ranks ; and, for the moment, I deluded myself with the idea 
I would in a new career yet re-establish my position with you 
all at home, and realize some of the kindly dreams with which 
my future had been invested. Oh, Jean ! I could kill myself as 
I think of my own folly. I am enduring a life of misery, such 
grinding humiliation, as you would shudder to see a dog endure. 
My companions hate me, for what they are pleased to think airs 
of superiority. My superior officers look upon me with ill-con- 
cealed contempt, as upon a man who evidently presumes in 
thought to belong to their order, and who must be kept down. 
To keep me down they tread upon me. And I turn ; I cannot 
help it. But my position grows more and more perilous each 
day. Is there any possibility of procuring my discharge ? I 
write to you, because I do not know — and dread to ask — what 
mother’s present means are. I leave it to you, Jean. If you 
see any good in telling her, go at once, and break it to her in 
your own way. If not — well then, God help me, for I will 
break from my position somehow, before long. I have that to 
answer for to-morrow that will probably decide me. I hope 
you will be able to understand what I have written, and which 
I intended to write very calmly, but I could not. 

“ Ever sincerely yours, 

“ Archibald Cairn. 

“P.S. — Address to the ‘Jolly Soldier,’ Chatham.” 

And Jean folded the letter, and stood, sliding it 
up and down between her fingers, trying vaguely to 
remember how she felt before she got past those 
opening words, “Dear, dear Jean for she was her- 
self again now, ready for action, and could scarcely 


86 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


realize the fact that she had taken down that picture. 
But there it was. So she hung it up, with the face to 
the wall as before, without a quiver of the arm ; and 
the marks of her fingers on the dust of the frame, and 
the round blistering drop on the letter, were the only 
visible traces of all that had passed in Jean’s heart 
during the last few minutes. She pinned on her 
bonnet and her shawl at the little glass, then knelt 
down and unlocked a hair-trunk, from which she 
drew a purse of wash-leather, counted its contents 
with an anxious look, then tied it round, and put it 
in her pocket. Again locking the trunk, she left the 
room. 

She walked with quick steps along the passage, and 
without looking up, paused, and tapped at Miss Ad- 
dersley’s door. 

“ Come in, Jean,” said Grace ; so Jean opened the 
door, and as she did so a deep rich red stained the 
polished boards, and a kind of Indian perfume per- 
vaded the passage some minutes after it was closed 
again. Facing the door was the great window open- 
ing to the black cedars, and towards Grey Ghost Walk 
beyond. The light that entered that way was but of 
a gloomy, sunless kind. But through the window at 
the far end of the room the sun shone brilliantly 
through a curtain of “ wine-dark violet ” silk, and so 
made the peculiar rich suffusion that tinged every- 
thing in the room. 

Grace was dressing with more than usual care that 
afternoon for the small tea-party of country neighbours 
that Mr. Dell had invited — quiet, cosy people — by 


JEAN'S LETTER. 


87 


way of preparing his wife for the more formal recep- 
tion that was to take place in a few days. Her black 
velvet robe lay on a chair beside her. She was attired 
in a wrapper of Indian muslin of a pale primrose 
colour. Before her was the tall glass, by means of 
which she went on, in Jean’s absence, plaiting her 
hair, and glancing now and then for a moment at the 
Times that lay on the table by her side. She had for 
months past made it a habit to study the Times , and 
it was no wonder, therefore, that when Mr. Dell hap- 
pened to speak on politics he always found her, for a 
woman, unusually well informed. 

“ Why, Jean,” said she, as the spare figure appeared 
like a shadow on the corner of the mirror, and thus 
for the first time made its presence known, “ dressed 
at this time, and going out! Have you forgotten 
me?” 

“I beg your pardon,” began Jane hurriedly, “but 
I have just received a letter, and I came to ask you to 
spare me to-day to go to Mrs. Cairn’s.” 

“ Mrs. Cairn’s ! oh, certainly, certainly. But what 
is the matter? ” 

“ Her son ” — said Jane, while playing nervously 
with the scanty fringe of her shawl, and trying to 
shape out words that she could utter — “ has written to 
me, and — ” 

“ Really ! ” said Grace, turning and looking full at 
Jean. “ So you have heard from him at last. Dear 
Mrs. Cairn ! I am so glad. And he has written to 
you, Jean, how odd ! Oh, by the bye, I remember ; 
not so strange either, is it, J ean ? ” 


88 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Mr. Archibald has written to me,” continued Jean 
in a dry voice — one in which Grace thought she could 
perceive some bitterness — “ instead of to his mother, 
because he is in trouble, and would not pain her, if 
she cannot help him.” 

Grace laid down her brush softly, and resting her 
chin on the back of her hand, remained sunk in deep 
thought, repeating absently, “Well, Jean? ” 

Jean hesitated a moment, then drew the letter from 
her pocket and placed it before Grace. Of the two 
evils it seemed the least : better at any rate than to 
stand there, and be cross-questioned on matters which 
it would be unendurable pain to answer. 

Grace read the letter through twice, and instead of 
rousing her from the reverie she had fallen into, it 
seemed to become a part of it. “ Dear me,” she said 
at last, handing it back to Jean, “ how unfortunate ! 
How very sad ! But tell me, what does he mean by 
the affair at the University, Jean ? ” 

It might have been the light, but Grace fancied she 
saw a faint flush overspread Jean’s face as she answered 
quickly : 

“ Oh, it’s nothing now. It wasn’t so bad at the 
time as he thinks. We — I mean Mrs. Cairn, would 
have known nothing about it if a friend of hers from 
Scotland had not told her.” 

Grace, who had a peculiarly happy way of making 
much of a little thing, or of making light of a great 
one, as it might suit her mood and purpose, said in a 
pressing but seemingly careless tone, — 

“ But tell me — was it some love affair or not? ” 


jean’s letter. 


89 


“Yes, something of that sort,” said Jean, manoeu- 
vring to get from the side of the glass, in which she 
had just caught a glimpse of Grace’s eye fixed on her. 
“I think it was with some woman who hadn’t a very 
good name in the place, and Archy didn’t know it ; 
and it brought on a deal of talk and scandal against 
him before he discovered her true character. But it’s 
all ended long ago. And it wasn’t so bad as he 
thinks : nobody knew of it here but us.” 

For a few seconds Grace remained leaning back in 
her chair, absorbed in thought. Presently she said 
to Jean, who stood nervous and anxious to escape — 
“ And what will he do when he comes back ?” 

“ Mr. Archy is a great scholar. He can do any- 
thing.” 

“Yes,” said Grace, smiling, “that’s very likely. 
But great scholars are at a standstill sometimes. I 
remember young Cairn now. Your master used, I 
think, to be very fond of him, before I came here ; 
and had a notion he was very clever and promising. 
Well, Jean, I have a thought : but before I tell it to 
you, I must let you into a secret. Mrs. Dell wishes 
to take some lessons, and I and my cousin have 
spoken about Mrs. Cairn. I have a very good opinion 
of her. Let her know that quietly ; and that I want 
to see her about Mrs. Dell. Something may grow 
out of it for her. Possibly for her son also. Mrs. 
Dell may wish to learn more than Mrs. Cairn can 
teach her — a language perhaps. You understand ?” 

“ Oh yes, Ma’am !” said Jean, and so gratefully, 
that if Grace had showered down all sorts of blessings 


90 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


upon herself, she could scarcely have gone so direct 
to Jean’s heart as by these words. But if this was 
the first impulse of her feelings, it was very different 
with her thoughts, when she pictured to herself — he 
here again, seeing her daily — old tones, old habits, old 
times revived — yet wanting all that they had origi- 
nally promised. Yes, her thoughts were perplexing 
— on the whole, sad ; but when she came to disentangle 
them as was her wont, and see what she ought to do, 
the path seemed clear enough, and the beginning was 
only what she had grown accustomed to — the treading 
down those that related to her own heart — down — 
down relentlessly — under her feet. 

“ Then, I suppose,” continued Grace, “ Mrs. Cairn 
will set off at once to Chatham. Poor old lady, it’s 
a long journey for her to undertake alone. Why 
don’t you go with her? You can if you like.” 

“ Thank you ; I will see. Yes, I think I had better 
go with her, perhaps;” though Jean’s heart misgave 
her at the thought of such a journey, and a meeting 
that might expose her to such misconception. 

Again the red light flushed the passage floor, and 
again the Indian perfume, unnoticed within, filled its 
atmosphere, as Jean’s footsteps died away on the 
stairs. 

Long after she had gone, Grace remained in her 
seat before the glass, musing. Once she drew back 
the hair suddenly from her brow, and bent forward 
as though grappling with some hostile thought, or 
perhaps with some more human enemy. And then 
the sight of her face — undoubtedly a handsome one — 


jean’s letter. 


91 


caught her own eyes, and was looked at inquiringly 
by them, as though face and eyes were strangers to 
each other till now, and as though the new acquaint- 
ance were not altogether displeasing. And there was, 
at times, a pale smile of triumph, just seen growing 
up, but checked as premature — out of place — by the 
strong intelligent will ; a smile that reminded one of 
the moonbeams in Grey Ghost Walk. It just played 
about her colourless face, and died. And thus she 
sat till the red light went out of the room, and the 
rooks began to gather clamorously in the chestnut 
avenue ; and then, with one more faint revival of the 
meaning smile scarcely rising higher than the thin 
lips, she rose and finished dressing. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 

As Jean was crossing the kitchen in her swift, 
noiseless way, looking, as she always did look, 
straight before her, and at nothing and nobody else, 
she felt a hand laid on her arm ; she turned — a pair 
of blue eyes looked into her own troubled ones, and 
a sweet voice said — 

“ Jean, if you’re going into the village, I wish you 
would take Meggy with you as far as the lane. You 
can leave her there till you come back.” 

Had Cook, or indeed any other person, asked this, 
just now, Jean would most likely have refused 
impatiently, and passed on. As it was, however, 
with those eyes looking into hers, and that hand 
upon her arm, she smiled faintly, and looked back 
for Meggy, who stood bonneted, flushed and proud 
as a newly blown peony, and with a broad grin on 
her face that scarcely left her eyes perceptible. And 
so, before Jean recollected that she was probably not 
coming back that night, she found herself in the lane 
with her charge. 


THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 


93 


The two walked along pretty quickly. Jean, with 
her lips moving now and then, as though in imagi- 
nary conversation, and her grey eyes fixed on the 
ground before her, had no thought or remembrance 
of Meggy ; who, on her part, saw little difference in 
the lane week day or Sunday ; indeed, what with the 
discomfort of a bonnet, and the creak of her Sunday 
shoes, she felt at first very much as though she were 
being cheated into an extra visit to church. But 
when they got out into the common, and began to 
breast the strong breeze that blew her bonnet off, she 
seemed to imbibe new life, and be seized with an 
instinctive desire, behind Jean’s back, to use her 
limbs in all sorts of odd ways, and altogether to 
behave like one of the hardworking donkeys that 
were turned out on the common on Sundays for a 
day of liberty and refreshment. But Jean’s presence, 
and swift step, kept her under some restraint. Now 
she would leave the footpath, and crushing hundreds 
of tiny delicate turf flowers beneath her clumsy feet, 
pluck a great glowing dandelion, which after sniffing 
at rapturously for the next few yards, she would 
thrust shyly in Jean’s face; and Jean, without paus- 
ing in her walk, and without a trace of emotion of 
any kind, would raise her hand, and put Meggy’s 
offering away, as she would put away one of the tire- 
some gnats which were beginning to swarm about 
them in the soft light. It was not until they had left, 
all the furze behind, and were on the black barren 
side of the common, that Jean thought of Meggy at 
all ; and then she remembered that it would not be 


94 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


convenient to take her further. So, turning round, 
she said abruptly — 

“You had better go back now. Goodbye;” and 
then, drawing her shawl round her, she walked on 
more swiftly than before. Meggy, after scratching 
her arms and hand with trying to pick a solitary 
spray of blossom that here and there remained on the 
furze, followed a footpath which she thought must 
lead her homewards, and was soon out of sight. 

Jean paused a moment before a double row of 
tenements on the border of the common, considering 
whether she should go round them to reach the low- 
fenced cottage that stood by itself, behind the three 
poplars, or whether she should go through them as 
the nearest way, which she did not care to do gene- 
rally. She had always been looked upon with 
suspicion by the villagers. This was partly on 
account of her plain, almost mean dress, so out of 
character with the position she held at the Hall, 
where she had been for so many years, under the 
Bletch worth dynasty, a trusty servant; and then, 
when the Dells succeeded, a kind of mistress, until 
the appearance of Miss Addersley at the Hall ; who 
found in Jean a treasure, and had had good sense 
enough to practically acknowledge it, not by liberal 
wages only, but by friendly and seemingly confi- 
dential treatment. Yes, Jean’s “stinginess” was one 
cause of the villagers’ dislike. Another was her 
reserve. She held herself aloof from all intercourse 
with them ; the only exception being Mrs. Cairn, the 
schoolmistress— the “poor lady.” She “was the 


THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 


95 


only person good enough for Jean to visit,” they sup- 
posed. Until lately, this kind of talk had not much 
troubled Jean; it may be doubted, indeed, whether 
she had been conscious of it, till the occurrence of an 
incident at the church two or three Sundays back, 
led the remarks upon her as she was passing through 
the village, which sent the blood rushing hotly into 
her pale face, and the remembrance of which now 
arrested her steps. 

It was after service one morning, when a subscrip- 
tion was being raised for a poor old woman, whose 
cottage had been burned to the ground. Such charities 
are not unusual in the district to which my story 
relates. The old woman stood at the church-door, 
leaning on her crutch, watching the coins being 
dropped into the little box opposite, and noisily bless- 
ing the givers. Every one of the Hall servants as 
they passed dropped a piece of silver into the box, 
except Jean ; who, in her transit across the old wo- 
man’s vision, clutched nervously the Prayer Book in 
her hand ; and heeding neither the many eyes that 
were fixed upon her, nor the example that had been 
given, slid quickly past; but not so quickly but she 
was compelled to overhear some of the gossiping 
comments made upon her meanness. 

It would, however, have been out of place with 
one of Jean’s character to let such an incident 
prey upon her mind at any time, and least of 
all now. So it was but a brief moment that her 
irresolution lasted ; and then, raising her head almost 
proudly, and with a sort of dignity of mien, she 


96 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


entered tlie narrow court between the rows of cot- 
tages. She only felt a slight tingling of the ears, as 
she became conscious of — though she would not see — 
the contemptuous eyes that glared at her out of dirty, 
broken windows’, or from under low doorways. She 
drew a long breath of relief as she found the soft 
yielding grass of the common once more beneath her 
feet. She had felt relieved that the children were not 
in the court when she passed through it. There was 
something horrible in their dislike. And now, as she 
laid her hand on Mrs. Cairn’s garden gate, she felt 
impatient at the sound of their voices within, and 
heartily longed for school to be over. She thought 
she would wait outside until they were dismissed. 
She loosened her bonnet strings, and leaned against 
the great apple-tree, looking down a tiny over-arched 
avenue of scarlet-runners, and listening to the rustling 
of the boughs that fanned her heated face, with a 
delicious feeling of rest, after her wearisome walk. 
The thatch of the cottage was old and out of order, 
but the edges were neatly cut ; and in the garden all 
round the cottage nothing was neglected that it was 
in the power of woman’s thoughtful — but not very 
strong hand — to do. But Jean soon began to weary 
of inaction. She had work to do, she felt. The 
sweet smell of the flower-leaves of roses, freshly 
strewn about by the last night’s rain, and the tender, 
happy carolling of the birds, whom her presence dis- 
turbed not — in the branches above, could not long 
soothe Jean’s busy mind ; so she hurriedly put her 
hand on the latch, opened the door, and then stood 


the Barter-master’s widow. 


97 


on the threshold, dinned for an instant by the hum 
and buzz of the many small voices. 

The schoolmistress, Mrs. Cairn, sat near the window 
on a high-backed chair, talking sternly to a child 
before her. Her brows were slightly contracted, and 
her face had that worn, harassed look, that always 
settled upon it towards the close of each afternoon. 
But her penetrating, unflinching brown eye was as 
bright, and her figure as straight and erect, as any 
girl’s in the village. She wore a black silk dress, 
which had been rich and luxuriant once, but had 
become dull and pinched under the grasp of poverty. 
A high-crowned and snow-white cap concealed every 
bit of her silver hair ; and above the broad frill which 
fell over her forehead was a band of black velvet. 

Jean stood looking at her ; and, anxious as she was 
for the children to go, yet when she saw them waiting 
with their bonnets on for the order to depart, her heart 
throbbed faster to feel her trial so near ; for it was a 
trial to bring such unexpected and afflicting news to one 
— to whom that heart was accustomed to be so open 
— and yet with whom it needed to be so guarded. 

But while she stands, fixing her troubled gaze upon 
the mistress, whose stern face still bends over the child, 
Jean hears a word — a murmur- -that makes her very 
eyes seem no longer to look, but to listen — unwillingly 
yet irresistibly — while the thin face droops, and the 
folded hands clutch each other tightly in the coarse 
thread gloves, as though to check their impulse to rise 
and shut out the feared yet uncertain sound, before it 
should cease to be uncertain, and the meaning should 
5 


98 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


enter and sting the unguarded, and, for the moment, 
timorous soul. “Miser!” Was that the word? she 
asked herself! the light in the straight-staring eyes 
becoming wilder and wilder. Was that the word that 
ran hissing about the room, or was it only in fancy 
that she had heard it ? If she were to turn suddenly 
round upon the knot of girls behind her, most likely 
she would find them occupied among themselves, per- 
haps quarrelling about some childish affair of their 
own, which had given rise to the epithet. She did 
turn unexpectedly upon them, and felt a hand let go 
her shawl, and saw bold eyes shrink before her own 
searching gaze. And there was a something in Jean’s 
face that would have made older assailants shrink too. 
But just then she was thinking of another even more 
than herself ; of what Mrs. Cairn would say or do if 
she heard the word. Jean turned; yet Mrs. Cairn 
had heard ; — had seen Jean — had risen, and was going 
to speak to the children. Jean stepped hurriedly to 
her, between the forms, and whispered — 

“ Don’t say anything, Mrs. Cairn, please don’t! ” 
Mrs. Cairn drew her hand across her aching brow, 
and then said with her usual stern voice — 

“ Children, you can go.” And, standing with her 
hand resting on the chair, she watched them all out, 
and shut the door ; then she dropped into the seat, 
leaned her elbow on the arm, and her brow upon the 
hand, repeating, in a low voice, “ This must not be, 
Jean. This must not be.” 

“Don’t think about it, Mrs. Cairn. They must 
have something to say of everybody.” Mrs. Cairn 


THE QUARTEE-M ASTER’S WIDOW. 


99 


did not answer ; but got up, and busied herself about 
the room, putting it to rights as Jean went on — 

“You have had another trying day of it. I can’t 
think how you can bear with children this hot 
weather.” 

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Cairn replied; “it has been a 
trying afternoon altogether. I get along pretty well 
all the week — when pay day is over ; but it’s hard 
work when it comes to that. Look at those two- 
pences.” Jean looked ; they were ranged along the 
mantel-piece. “ There they are, all of them ; but you 
wouldn’t believe the work I had to get them. Per- 
haps I’m too hard on those who I know can pay, and 
won’t without plain speaking. I think I am some- 
times. But where I know the little things have had 
to ask and ask for it from parents who can scarcely at 
times give them food, the money seems to scorch my 
hand, Jean. It seems to scorch my hand. Ay, that’s 
right, put out the things, girl ; let us have some tea.” 

Jean set the tea out on a little table in the inner 
room, which was only a kind of back kitchen, and 
had a stone floor ; but it had a nice window, with a 
Canary flower climbing all round it, and so made a 
pleasant change from the hot dusty school-room. 
And the two pale, jaded women sat gazing into the 
fire, which seemed not altogether unseasonable to 
their wintry hearts, and listening to the cheering 
singing of the kettle on the hob. They were so still 
and silent that a sparrow pecking at the fallen fruit 
beneath the currant bushes, just outside the open 
door, came and sharpened its beak upon the stone at 


100 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


the threshold more than once before, a sound from 
within drove it away. 

“ Jean,” said Mrs. Cairn, at last, calling the 
listener’s thoughts back from a long wandering jour- 
ney to the business in hand, and to the letter that 
must be delivered ; “ Jean, this must not go on. You 
put yourself and me into a painfully false position by 
this strange secresy. Why is it you stoop to let your 
actions and your character be so falsified by this 
gossip scandal? Why should they not know the 
cause that you stint yourself in all sorts of ways — 
that it. is for me ; and that if I submit to be so helped, 
it is because we share our weal and woe together, not 
only as countrywomen and friends, but as mother 
and daughter, both alike looking forward to the day 
when he shall come, to repay us for all the sacrifices 
we have made ?” 

Jean took up a bunch of dripping watercresses, 
and went to the door with them, apparently to shake 
off the superabundant moisture, and for a moment a 
wan, bitter — bitter smile quivered on the thin lips. 
She was paler when she sat down again, but perfectly 
collected ; and even ventured to answer the kindly 
look of Mrs. Cairn, who now took her hand, as she 
continued — 

“ I know you can’t have the trust in him, my child, 
that I have. But surely you have enough, Jean, to 
stop these gossips’ mouths by telling them the truth. 
Of course,” she added, a little proudly, dropping her 
hand, “ I know you could not do this by halves; you 
could not tell them that I have shared your earnings 


THE QUARTER-MASTER'S WIDOW. 


101 


without letting them know of your engagement, long 
ago, with Archy. Why do you turn away, Jean ? 
Come, tell me ; is this the secret — do you doubt his 
love for you?” 

“ It isn’t that,” said Jean, evading Mrs. Cairn’s 
searching eye, and feeling that, quiet as were the 
tones, there was danger lurking behind them; and 
that if she told all she did feel and think, Mrs. Cairn 
would starve before Jean’s own eyes before she would 
any longer consent to be helped — as she had been 
helped already. There had been long struggles on 
this matter, even as it was. But if the sole support 
to Mrs. Cairn’s pride and self-respect failed her — the 
belief that in sacrificing her all for Archy she was 
indirectly benefiting Jean, as his future wife, and 
might therefore take, nay, could not practically refuse, 
the aid that was always so humbly proffered, and so 
indispensable — Jean knew well that if this belief 
failed, all her power and influence were at an end, so 
far as they might be necessary to Mrs. Cairn’s pecu- 
niary welfare. “It isn’t that,” she repeated, “only, 
you see, he has been a long time away now, and we 
have heard nothing of him ; and it seems strange, every- 
body says so, that he has never written ; and some- 
times I think — suppose — suppose — while we are talk- 
ing such grand things of him, he should be — ” 

“ Be ? Well, be what ? What do you mean, J ean ?” 

“ Suppose he should be in trouble !” Jean’s voice 
was husky, and her hand closed nervously on the 
letter in her pocket. 

“Jean, Jean ! you’ve come to tell me something at 


102 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE.' 


the Hall. Speak ! What is it ? What have you 
heard about my boy?” 

They had both risen, and Mrs. Cairn had grasped 
Jean’s right arm, so that she could not get at the 
letter. They felt each other tremble, with the con- 
sciousness of that which had to be told and listened 
to. The tears gathered in Jean’s eye, as she said — 

“ It is not very bad ; nothing but what we can 
remedy. He has written to me. Let me show you 
the letter.” 

Jean gave the mother the letter, and watched her 
reading it. The face, which had lost all its calmness 
in the rush of motherly feeling and alarm, grew rigid, 
and the lips compressed, as Mrs. Cairn, at the close, 
crushed the letter up in her hand, which she almost 
dashed upon the table, as she exclaimed — 

“ Archibald Cairn, my husband — I thank God you 
never lived to see your name disgraced as it is in this 
letter.” 

“ Ho, no, Mrs. Cairn, not disgraced !” interrupted 
Jean passionately, burning with a sense of injustice 
done to him — injustice which she had expected, was 
prepared for, and determined to contend with ; injustice 
towards him who had embittered her whole life. Yet 
even while she did this she dreaded the mother’s anger. 

“Hot disgraced!” repeated Mrs. Cairn, turning upon 
her. “ Hot disgraced by entering on such a life, in 
such a manner, lightly, wholly unprepared, as a mere 
matter of convenience, as a cowardly way of getting 
out of a scrape into which no doubt he has shamefullv 
fallen ! Hot disgraced ! With his mind, views, and 


THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 


103 


ability, to go forth to kill or be killed — with as little 
care or sense of responsibility as if he were one of a 
band of idle sportsmen, or as a man having no ties 
among his fellow-creatures — no duties towards God. 
Is this what he learned under our roof? Is this the 
fruit of all his father’s teaching? Hot disgraced! 
Tell me, has he not now made himself into one of 
those whom his father held in* such contempt and 
abhorrence — men who sell their sword for hire, and 
in doing so sell their souls with it ? My husband, 
Jean, was a soldier. He fought against his country’s 
enemies — no man more bravely, or, within his sphere, 
more successfully ; but he did it with a clear con- 
science. Rightly or wrongly, he believed it was his 
vocation. He gloried in it, and I — his wife — dare to 
say it, he helped to glorify it. He was at once — sol- 
dier of his king, and of the King of kings. Hot dis- 
graced ! Oh, Jean, do you feel so little with me ? 
You, who were to have been my daughter! He 
becomes a soldier, does he ? and before he has found 
time to let us know the fact, he finds it not to his 
liking, and I must purchase his discharge? Well, 
he shall be answered. He shall be satisfied — quite 
satisfied. I will tell him now, what hitherto I have 
striven to conceal, that to give him the means of 
realizing his boyish dreams — dreams that now as a 
man he renounces — I have parted with my last shil- 
ling, and have lived upon your bounty.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Cairn !” 

11 Stay, yes — I forgot for a moment — there is one 
thing more. This roof is mine. We can sell that, 


104 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and become houseless. And should we not do so for 
so noble — noble a son ? ” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Cairn 1” was all that Jean could say, as 
she listened to these bitter, cruel words, but which 
yet she felt to be more just than she was willing to 
acknowledge. 

“ No, no, Jean ! he is mistaken ! Purchase his 
discharge ! No — no — no ; let him not believe it. I 
will not do him or ourselves so poor a service. As 
he has made his bed, - so let him lie. Go away, Jean, 
a little while ; we will talk again. Oh, my poor — 
poor child ! Is this the hope I have been holding 
out to you. Nay, leave me alone.” 

“No, Mrs. Cairn, I must say this : if Archy isn’t 
prosperous, if he is in trouble and misery, and then 
appeals to us, I can’t harden my heart to him as you 
do, just because we’ve talked great things that were 
not to be, and can’t stoop to accept the little things 
that God pleases' to give us. I cannot do that, Mrs. 
Cairn — I will not.” This was said almost defiantly ; 
but Jean’s mood instantly changed. She came to the 
table, placed her hand on Mrs. Cairn’s that lay there, 
clenched, and looking up with streaming eyes into 
the stern face, she said, “ We must go to him at once. 
We must go, and save him from what might be real 
disgrace.” 

“ What do you mean ?” asked the mother, throw- 
ing off Jean’s hand, and spreading out the crumpled 
letter before her, to look at it again. 

“Didn’t you see that?” inquired Jean, pointing 
with trembling finger to the passage in Archy ’s letter 


THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 


105 


that said “ I have that to answer for to-morrow which 
will probably decide me.” “We must go to him — 
we must save him,” she repeated. But Mrs. Cairn 
stood darkly silent, making no sign of acquiescence. 

“ Jean,” said she at last, in a changed and painfully 
unnatural voice, as she walked into the next room, 
“ Come here.” When Jean came to her side, she 
held her by the wrist, and said, as she pointed up to 
the quarter-master’s sword slung in leathern bands 
over the mantel-piece, “You know that that was his 
father’s sword, Jean ; and look here.” She took from 
a drawer a little parcel carefully folded in a handker- 
chief, and opening it, showed Jean a worn-out old 
spelling-book. She then turned over the tattered yel- 
low leaves, speaking the while, with the same slow, 
measured, painful utterance. “ He learned his letters 
from this. One day he was sitting on my knee ; I 
had been hearing him read, and he was talking to me 
about what he had been reading. I don’t remember 
his words, but I almost held my breath to hear a child 
of four years old say the things he did. His father 
came in, and pointed that sword at him in play, and 
Archy screamed and clung to me, almost convulsively. 
Cairn was hurt with the child, and angry with me for 
holding him; and he bade me put him down, and not 
make a coward of him. And I smiled; and said, 
laying my hand on this little book — 1 Husband, this is 
the weapon with which our boy will win us glory !’ 
And I told him then of Archy’s sayings. They 
touched him — almost drew tears to his eyes; and he 
placed his hand upon the child’s head, and said, ‘ God 


106 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


bless him ; he shall have his free choice of both.’ Jean, 
he has tampered with and dishonoured both. Yea, 
both— both!” 

Jean’s whole body shook with the violent trem- 
bling of the hand that grasped her wrist ; but her heart 
rejoiced, for she knew by that trembling — that broken 
voice — those slowly dropping tears, the worst was 
over, that love conquered pride, and that Archy was 
safe. } 

“You will go to him,” she ventured to whisper; 
4 you will save him yet— won’t you?” And Jean 
gazed up into the worn, furrowed face, that seemed to 
have grown years older in the last half-hour; hoping 
— yet dreading, a reply. 

“Jean !” 

“ Mother !” She used the word with a sense that 
Archy’s whole future might be hanging on his mo- 
ther’s resolve ; and yet sick of herself the instant it 
had passed her lips. 

“ Jean, how are we to do this ?” 

Jean’s little wash-leather purse came forth, and was 
laid on the spelling-book. 

“ It^s what I put by for a time like this. I think 
there’s enough.” 

There was silence again — silence on both sides. 
Jean feared to say any more, and Mrs. Cairn could 
not speak. Oh, how well Jean knew the suffering of 
that pained pride ; and how she dreaded a revival of 
the former bitterness in the mother’s heart. So she 
came close to her, put the purse timidly into her 
bands, closed the unwilling fingers over it, and then 


THE QUARTER-MASTER’S WIDOW. 


107 


— in a voice that was strangely sweet and pathetic, as 
coming from Jean — she once more murmured — 

“Mother!” 

The two wan faces looked into each other, through 
the deepening twilight, and met. No more differences 
that night. 

Two hours later, weary, but still sleepless, the two 
lay down side by side in the little bed-room up-stairs ; 
talking over all their arrangements for the journey, 
the start to-morrow morning, and of the future which 
Miss Addersley’s words had opened to them ; Jean 
listened to the talking of happiness that she was quite 
sure would never be hers, but which she must appear 
to believe in, lest her little help should be refused 
when it was so much needed ; and so comforting her 
older companion until she fell asleep, when Jean 
turned away, with her despair, almost passionately 
hugging it, as it were to her breast, lest she might be 
induced suddenly to believe all this semblance real, 
and awake to a deeper suffering and humiliation than 
any she had yet tasted. And so she lay, all the long- 
weary night — her sad eyes never once closing — never 
once quitting that dim line of sky that appeared over 
the low window curtain, until the cocks began to 
crow to each other from distant farm-yards, and the 
new light broke in pale streaks of red behind the tops 
of the three poplars. And then — just when Jean 
thought she must get up — there was silence, cessation 
of pain and thinking, and an hour or more of peace- 
ful, blessed sleep. 


CHAPTEE Y III. 


MR. DELL’S STUDIO. ) 

“Now, ladies, tell me candidly, do you think 
Eaphael himself could have painted under such cir- 
cumstances ?” 

Bursts of laughter from Mrs. Dell and Grace are 
the only answer. 

“Well, be warned, for I am growing savage, and may 
do that you will be sorry for. Have you any more 
questions to put to me, Mrs. Dell ? I have told you, 
with wonderful patience, I think, why I thus darken 
my room ; why I prefer to stand while painting ; why 
I put my crayons here and nowhere else, and must 
have, that particular shade of paper for my first 
sketches, and no other; why I choose to keep my 
studio in this ‘ blessed mess,’ as you are pleased to 
call it ; why I think it is , on the whole, worth my 
while to try to paint; why I don’t generally admit 
anybody here, and especially ladies ; why I have let 
you both in to-day ; and why — if you don’t behave 
better — I shall turn you both out again, and never 
more try such a weak experiment.” 

“ Ah, but, Grace, he hasn’t told us yet — has he? — 


MR. DELL’S STUDIO. 


109 


why he goes on painting subjects, with our help as 
models, without obtaining our previous permission to 
his making such displays of us ; and why he won’t 
even let us see what her is doing ! How do we know 
in what posture he will present us to posterity ? I 
declare it makes the flesh of my ghost-body creep, 
as I feel it walking through the long gallery up-stairs 
some two hundred years hence, and coming to a pic- 
ture, and there recognising myself in — oh, I dare 
not imagine what guise, or drapery, or absence of 
drapery !” 

“ Well, dear, I must say he ought to let us have 
some voice in the matter, certainly.” 

“ Come, then, ladies, a compromise. I am not 
particularly in love with the subject I have begun, 
so give me another. Grace, what say you ?” 

“ Oh, no, I can’t suggest anything.” 

“ Then, Mrs. Dell, if — as I suspect — all this is 
your planning, and subtle contrivance, in order that 
you may be once more master, even here — in my 
especial domain — out with it ; impose your gracious 
commands, and let me see whether I shall obey, or 
turn rebel in sheer self-protection.” 

11 And in the cause of high art ?” 

11 Come, come, madam, no more mockery. What 
is that little paper that I have seen peeping out of 
your tightly-closed hand for some time past — eh ?” 

Winny gave a half-laugh ; but somehow it seemed 
to subside into a smile, and that again into a deep 
blush, as she allowed Mr. Dell to unclose, one by 
one, the pretty little fingers. I don’t think he would 


110 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


have succeeded but for an unfair advantage lie took, 
while Grace was looking another way — he kissed 
them, and they loosened at once. Triumphantly he 
called out to Grace, “ I have it ! Now we shall see 
what all this rebellion in the place means. Here is 
the arch-offender’s own unwilling confession.” He 
began to read — “ ‘ Lady Hester : a Legend of Grey 
Ghost Walk.’ Why, didn’t I tell you that Grey 
Ghost Walk had no legends?” 

“ For that very reason, cousin, I am glad Winny 
has given us one. That is a favourite walk of mine. 
Come, I grow curious ; read it.” 

Mr. Dell did so, with eager, glowing eyes, but at 
first in silence. When he had finished he came to his 
little wife, who sat now very pale and tremulous, see- 
ing that her fondly guarded secret of poetical tastes, 
and struggles, and ambitions, must be acknowledged, 
and that the sense of responsibility — the fear of criti- 
cism — the shame of failure, must all now be encoun- 
tered. Her husband came to her, took her hand, 
looked into her face with a mute eloquence of affec- 
tionate respect, and deep sympathy, and manly pride, 
that gave only too much meaning to the single kiss 
he pressed upon the tearful, yet glad face. Winny 
was in no danger of mistaking him ; was incapable of 
drawing more from his encouragement than he had 
intended. She knew him too well to suppose he 
rated very highly, as poems, these her first utterances ; 
but it was everything to her to be assured that he did 
not look upon her as fostering an idle delusion. It 
would have alarmed her beyond measure to be called a 


MR. DELL’S STUDIO. 


Ill 


poet. That was a word to her of awful — super- 
humanly beautiful meaning. But she only gave due 
play to her own instincts when she thought it possible 
she might in time become a poet. And if even in that 
she were deceived, it was at all events pleasant and 
consolatory to be deceived in such companionship. 

Mr. Dell again read the paper through, and then 
said hastily, “ I will paint this picture. I will begin 
at once. Grace, you must read it aloud to me. If 
you like it — and I am sure you will^-do your best to 
set me off. Throw yourself into the feeling of the 
chief person. Be Lady Hester. I couldn’t possibly 
have a more beautiful model — (no, no, cousin, we 
don’t compliment, you know that) ; no one whose 
style of beauty could be more appropriate. Lady 
Hester’s bearing is that of a high-born lady of majestic 
presence, somewhat reserved I imagine, but with that 
in her which only rare occasions bring forth. You 
will fail in one thing, I fear.” 

“ And what is that, cousin ? ” 

“You won’t be able to bring forth the bad feelings 
strong enough. Excuse the word, you can’t play the 
devil. But there is where the dramatic art serves us 
— whether painters, or actors, or simply sympathetic 
readers. You have that art, Grace, strongly from 
Nature. Be an actress, therefore, for once; throw 
yourself into Lady Hester with all the power of your 
imagination, of your will, your wish to please and to 
benefit me— and of your hatred towards anybody else, 
if — which I don’t believe — there is any one in this 
wide world you can hate. You will see that Lady 


112 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Hester has a strongish infusion of that quality. Now, 
stand there, as though you were descending a turret 
staircase, and your foot was leaving the last step at 
the bottom. Now, Mrs. Dell — ah, capital ! your white 
dress is just suited for the occasion ; only let me give 
you this bride-favour ; it’s dusty, I know, but ’twill 
do. An artist, you see, has all sorts of out-of-the-way 
things ready at his call. Now, begin. Stay, just a 
moment, while I modify the light. That’s ilt ; couldn’t 
be better. Now, Grace, begin.” 

And Grace read — 

LADY HESTER— A LEGEND OF GREY GHOST WALK. 

When the ruddy sunset stained 

All her casement — diamond-paned, 

Triumphant joy possessed her : 

“ He has sired me for his son ; 

Wealth, dominion, all are won ; ” — 

Cried the Lady Hester. 


When sweet moonshine bathes her bower, 
Leaning forwards from the tower, 

Familiar tones arrest her ; 

Footsteps in the chestnut walk, 
Low-hushed hum of lovers’ talk, 

“ ’Tis he ! ” breathed Lady Hester. 

She heard the murmur sink and swell ; 

She heard the name of Isabel ; 

Tumultuous fear3 possessed her. 

“Ah, no,” she heard, “by Heaven I swear, 
“ He shall disown me as his heir, 

“ Ere I wed Lady Hester !” 


ME. DELL’S STUDIO. 


113 


Again rich flooding sunlight stained 

Her little lattice, diamond-paned ; 

Deep shame and hate possessed her. 

A figure - ’neatli the chestnuts came, 

‘ ’Tis she 1” — with brow and cheek a-flame, 

Low hissed the Lady Hester. 

Her foot was on the turret stair ; 

Her shoulders, from the chilly air, 

The loosened robe scarce covered. 

Her hair, as raven’s plumage black, 

In two wild masses floating back, 

Like pinions round her hovered. 

Her dark eye flashed with fearful light ; 

She met her in her bridal white, 

And by her breast-knot seized her ; 

And gazed and gazed her beauty through, 

As from its deadlier hate she drew, 

And conscious power appeased her. 

She held her back against the gate ; 

She gazed out all her strength of hate, 

Until the curse possessed her — 

Till strange cries haunted hill and heath ; 

Till stony grew the face beneath 
The curse of Lady Hester. 

“ Ah, glorious, Grace, glorious ! Don’t change or 
move limb or muscle. Be silent both. Think, Grace, 
I beg of you, of every ill deed, or unlucky word, I or 
anybody else ever said to your injury or annoyance; 
and especially don’t pity her — the poor thing in white 
there. Back with her to the gate ! Fine ! fine ! Oh, 
let me but do justice to you, Grace, and you shall be 
immortal.” 


114 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

He worked on, minute after minute, with a kind 
of madness. Once, when lie raised hisyryes to that 
face, they became fascinated. Hei threw.. down his 
brush, and pushing the hair from his moist brow, he 
gazed, as in a dream, upon the fearful strength of 
that white clenched hand, and those stormy square 
brows, lowering over the orbs of burning light. 
There was a weak suppressed cry, somethlhg between 
a laugh and a scream. His eyes fell upon another 
face — white, awe-stricken. He rushed forward and 
caught his wife in his arms. But she broke from 
him, laughing — 

“ Oh, Grace, how you frightened me!” 

Her voice was so tremulous and low, that Grace 
roused herself ; and a faint flush overspread her 
cheeks, and she stole a rapid, searching, half-alarmed 
glance at Mr. Dell’s face. The eyes of the three met; 
and then there was a burst of sudden and musical 
laughter from Grace which was more than echoed by 
th*responsive mirth of Mrs. and Mr. Dell. 

“ What! Winny,” cried the latter, “like the engi- 
neer, hoist with your own petard ?” 


jean’s dowry. 


If the iirst effects of mental trouble are depressing 
(as though it had been determined we must be stopped 
in our mid-career, and brought face to face with fresh 
experiences), when that first shock passes away, and 
a gentler sorrow sways in turn, and a kind of holy 
dew falls upon the soul, the results are often to leave 
a greater strength behind ; and to give unto our life 
a renewed sense of elasticity that can look unmoved 
upon the possible recurrence of further pain, yet feel 
reviving the while old and pleasurable instincts. So 
was it with Mrs. Cairn under the humble and kindly 
ministrations of Jean. She felt the maiden’s love for 
ever around her ; she believed also in her son’s love 
for his mother, in spite of his errors; and, if she 
looked back, she remembered how devotedly attached 
to her her husband had always been ; these were 
things that enabled Mrs. Cairn to bear much humilia- 
tion and distress without repining. But, alas! for 
poor Jean ; past, present, and future were alike a 
desert'for her ! And had not the same sense of duty 
that laid such heavy burdens upon her brought also 





116 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

its own secret and ..subtle compensations, she would 
have failed and dropped down by the way -side.:' Poor 
Jean ! There was seemingly nothing ela^c now 
about her. She«gave way — meekly bending — ever 
lower and lower,, to each new pressure of Fortune’s 
hand, except when either of the two dear ones who 
possessed her heart were threatened; Jhen she seemed 
to rise, to dilate, to recover in an instant much of the 
lost ground ; and so the very excess of her suffering 
was that which alone enabled her to continue to bear 
suffering at all. While, therefore, Mrs. Cairn, in the 
early morning of the day immediately following the 
night of their arrival, moved on through the streets 
of Chatham, buoyant, hopeful, full of a thousand 
professional recollections of her — and her husband’s 
— former life, which were naturally suggested by the 
sights and sounds of the place ; while she took upon 
herself the task of explaining to Jean, with a kind 
of garrulous pride, whatever she thought might 
interest her ; and that made Jean — who had never 
viewed Mrs. Cairn in any other light than as the stern, 
patient, and learned schoolmistress of Yelverton — 
look up in amazement at the manly, almost jocund 
expressions that burst from her, when some objects 
around brought back the old days of action and excite- 
ment, which had been hers before she settled down, 
on her husband’s death, with a stern sense of Muty, 
to a vocation previously so little to her taste^. *?2fean, 
on her part, if she did not reciprocate the inwfcra feel- 
ing, or listen very earnestly to the flood of outward 
talk, did also feel less miserable than usual though 


4 


jean’s dowry. 


117 


still full of anxiety as to how she should meet Archy 
— how speak to him — how let him see (without risk- 
ing explanations, undesirable alike for both), that she 
had long ago released him in her thoughts from the 
early engagement they had entered into. 

The morning was one of those delicious ones that 
are in themselves enough to take away half the 
miseries of the world they environ ; to make invalids 
feel well again ; and healthy people long for some 
extraordinary things to achieve, worthy of the new 
energies that seem to quicken with the dancing blood. 
Every man, woman, or child, the pair met, seemed for 
once to have something in hand which it was a con- 
scious pleasure to perform. The poor blind beggar 
on the doorstep of the unlet house, with upraised 
face and winking eyes, seemed to have actually for- 
gotten the coveted halfpence, and to be drawing in 
and in fresh and fresh draughts from the vigorous life 
of the sun. Then there was music perpetually rising 
and falling in the air, ‘just as it was caught or lost in 
the distance ; and then again, at intervals, came the 
spirit-stirring blast of the trumpet, rousing even in 
Jean’s feeble military tastes a sudden sense of all the 

“ Pomp, pride, and circumstance of glorious war.” 

The “Jolly Soldier,” to which they had been 
directed by Archy’s letter, was, they were told, a little 
beyond the Marine Barracks. So they went along 
nearly to the further extremity of the town, until 
they saw, through an opening on the left, the face of 
the hill, with its heights everywhere studded with 


118 


THE SHADOW IK THE HOUSE. 


cannon. Winding round with the road, they came to 
a drawbridge, and Jean read with alarm the words — 

“ Drive slowly over the bridge.” 

She looked down, timidfy, to see if the supports 
were unsafe, or if she were passing through some 
terrible military snare which might be dangerous to 
the uninitiated. Mrs. Cairn laughed, and made Jean 
look down into the great trench below them, the 
narrow bottom of which was probably no less than 
forty feet deep, and the broad top measuring across 
from the edge of one sloping wall to the other as 
many feet wide. 

“ That’s for the Frenchmen, my girl, when they 
land. Nice place, you see, for them to walk in, if 
only they would be so good as to keep there. And 
look, Jean, where the trench, as it extends straight up 
the hill, makes a turn to the right : you see, there, 
those openings in the earth, and in the masonry, don’t 
you ? — well, that’s where our countrymen would pre- 
pare politely to look out, to see what was going on, 
and to extend their helping hands to the coming 
guests. Ah, Jean, my girl, you can’t see, as I can, 
what death and destruction lurk within those now 
quiet openings; what volleys of musketry, what 
storms of shot and shell ; what avalanches of troops, 
bursting down and sweeping away all before them ; in 
a word — what a hell this morning’s paradise might be 
suddenly changed into by a few bands of our fellow- 
creatures being suddenly found trying to go up, or to 
cross over this trench, and a few other bands of our 


jean’s dowry. 


119 


fellow-creatures seeing decided reasons to prevent 
them. But come, let us ascend to the heights. I 
should like to show you the heights ; it won’t detain 
us long, and perhaps I may not feel disposed to come 
here again. Another bridge, you see, across the 
trench. 

“ There, girl, now we have reached the top, and 
can see where we are, and what lies about us. That 
magnificent river is the Medway.* When last I was 
upon it, I counted forty men-of-war lying there. All 
this great space between us and the river is called the 
Lines — the famous ‘ Chatham Lines.’ 1 have seen 
some fine sights there in my time. Ah, how often 
have I talked about them, and sighed for a sight of 
them, in India, and in Canada, and upon that misera- 
ble rock of Gibraltar, for I have been in all those 
places, Jean. 

“ You see, Jean, don’t you, how all these batteries 
command the river, and every possible mode of ap- 
proach ? True hospitality, you know, always likes 
to step out as far as possible to welcome the stranger. 
When he comes closer he will find these breastworks 
— see there, and there, these little slopes with a low 
wall at the top are called breastworks. The soldiers 
load at the bottom, run up the slope, say what they 
have to say, or, as they are not naturally so eloquent 
as the strangers, let their guns speak for them, and 
then as rapidly descend again. Jean, would you 
believe it, I have loaded guns for my husband in just 
such a position, when he was commanding a small 
party in the hills of India, and we beat the party off 


120 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


— by Heaven we did, Jean ; and I had much to do to 
quiet their jokes about making me Commander-in- 
Chief.” 

11 Well, but, Mrs. Cairn,” said Jean, who was moved 
by the elder woman’s enthusiasm, whose eyes literally 
blazed as she saw rising before ! her so many and 
deeply interesting things, which she had thought she 
had altogether forgotten, or ceased to care about ; “ well, 
but, Mrs. Cairn, suppose they did get even within these 
breastworks, would it be all over then ? And would 
the Arsenal, and the stores, and the — the — ” 

“ All over, you simple child ? Why that to Bri- 
tish soldiers would scarcely be the beginning. Say 
the Frenchmen are here, as many thousand strong as 
you please ; well, they won’t want to stay on these 
heights, to be a mark for the kind attentions of the 
whole garrison ; no, they must descend — and how ? 
See, I will show you ; come along. These are the 
roads down to the dockyard. Nice winding roads, 
aren’t they ? Nicely shut in, aren’t they ? Just a 
little sky, you see, above, that’s all. Nice perpendi- 
cular walls to climb. Heaven help the poor soldiers 
that were compelled to pass through this valley, 
which would be to them no valley of the shadow of 
death — but death itself — merciless, wide sweeping, 
horrible.” 

Jean began to understand now something of the 
strength of Chatham, and to feel a sort of inkling of 
rapidly increasing military knowledge ; and a quiet 
confidence not only as to her particular safety, but as 
to that of Chatham, and Britain at large, when she was 


jean’s dowry. 


121 


rather taken aback by Mrs. Cairn’s next observa- 
tions. 

“ And if all that didn’t do to stop them, what then, 
Jean ? ” 

“ Can’t imagine, I’m sure.” 

“ We” — that was Mrs. Cairn’s own word, “we 
should blow up the whole place — trenches, roads, 
breastworks, magazines, nay, the very hill itself, with 
all who were upon or among them.” 

“ Mercy on me — how would you do that ?” 

“ Why, Jean, you can’t be sure you tread on a 
single foot of solid ground hereabouts. No — no, 
child ; don’t be afraid. It won’t be your little foot 
that will discover the abysses beneath. Why, there 
are underground communications running about in 
all directions, and connecting together the most dis- 
tant points ; and what would these subterranean ways 
be but so many mines, child, if they are wanted ; 
mines to blow us all up, if the time were come?” 

“ Ah, well,” said Jean, “ I hope the Frenchmen 
will be wise enough to keep away, both for their own 
sakes and ours.” 

“Oh, for that matter, Jean, I wish them no harm, 
if they will only understand this is our country, and 
not theirs ; and that we will allow no sorts of liberties 
to be taken with it. There are guests, you know, 
that if they once get into your house, you can’t get 
rid of ; we must have no more guests of that kind in 
England, eh, Jean?” 

Mrs. Cairn turned, and saw Jean had stopped oppo- 
site the gate of some barracks they were passing. 

6 


122 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


The gate was closed, but there was a crowd outside, 
waiting apparently for some unusual exhibition. Mrs. 
Cairn drew near to Jean, and also tried to gain some 
glimpse of what was passing within. In answer to 
an inquiry a man said he had been told a soldier was 
going to be drummed out of the regiment. 

“What for?” 

“ Bad character.” 

“ And his name ?” 

“ Martin Todd, or Dodd ; I don’t know exactly.” 

Jean, who had hastily put these questions, with a 
feeling she would not like to have owned, now that 
she saw it was mistaken, was for passing on, though 
not the less nervously dreading the interview that 
might soon be taking place at the “Jolly Soldier.” 
But Mrs. Cairn, to whom every incident brought 
fresh matter for recollection, stopped her, saying — 

“ Let us see what passes. Perhaps I may know 
some of the officers. An old friend of his father’s 
might be useful, if any such person could be found 
after all these years. It is not his regiment, I see ; 
but then you know officers shift about so.” 

Drawing as near as the crowd will permit them, 
they both now peer curiously through the iron rail- 
ings. 

The ordinary exercises of morning parade seem at 
present to be engaging attention. There is a consider- 
able number of soldiers drawn up in a double line on 
the further side at the bottom of the sloping ground ; 
and extending not only along the whole line of bar- 
rack front, but curving round the extremities of the 


JEANS DOWRY. 


123 


parade. An aged-looking officer is giving the word 
of command, standing alone in the centre. 

“ The Lieutenant-Colonel, Jean,” observed Mrs. 
Cairn ; “ he is the actual commander of the regiment.” 

“ I should have thought that that magnificent-look- 
ing man with the white feathers, standing by the band 
there, had been the head,” replied Jean. 

“ He I” and Mrs. Cairn fairly laughs out, and some 
of the bystanders who have overheard join in ; “ why, 
that’s the drum-major!” 

Poor Jean doesn’t know what that means, and 
doesn’t care to illustrate the state of her military 
knowledge by any further questions, and so looks on 
silently henceforth. 

A knot of officers are standing on the steps of the 
Adjutant’s office to the right of the entrance; and 
the band occupies a corresponding position by the 
guard-room on the other side. There, too, stands the 
Adjutant of the regiment, with a paper in his hand, 
ready to read some document from head-quarters. 
To complete the picture, a soldier, an orderly, with 
no arms but a stick, walks continually to and fro close 
by the gate, looking as though he knew something 
of importance was to be done, although his lips are 
sealed. 

For some little time, however, nothing occurs to 
arrest attention, unless it be the pleasant way in which 
the tediousness of the manoeuvres is broken up as it 
were, and relieved, by the constantly recurring snatches 
of music from the band, and which are as exhilarating 
as the morning itself. Surely no punishment can be 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


124 

V 

here impending ! Alas ! for the poor wretch who lis- 
tens if there be. 

But now there is a sudden and dead silence, broken 
again, for an instant, by a word of command. The 
petty officers step forward from the ranks, with their 
swords raised, and stand in front of the long line, 
while the double row of soldiers face ns. Hark 1 it 
is the Adjutant who speaks. With a clear loud 
voice, penetrating to the furthest corner of the ground, 
he reads from a paper in his hand the terms of a sen- 
tence passed upon one Martin Todd. But he reads 
fast, and in a mechanical routine sort of manner, that 
makes the result little else than voice to those present ; 
to those, at all events, who, like Mrs. Cairn and Jean, 
are without the gates. In vain do they strive to 
understand its tenor after the first few words ; they 
catch his name, and that is about all they can rely on. 
In vain, also, like many of those around, have they 
tried to separate the culprit from the mass. But now, 
as the Adjutant concludes, there is a movement 
among the group by his side, and a man, bare-headed, 
walks forth, and the magnificent drum-major by his 
side. 

Mrs. Cairn happened at that moment to look at 
Jean’s face. O God! Will she ever forget the 
expression she saw there ? or the instantaneous fright- 
ful rush of the blood to her own brain, as she under- 
stood with intuitive perception, what it was that Jean 
saw — and that, in truth, Martin Todd was her own 
son — -Archibald Cairn. For an instant or two Jean 
had no eyes or thoughts even for the stricken mother. 


jean’s dowry. 


125 


Her whole soul was absorbed in the one idea — too 
vast, too hideous yet for her even dimly to compre- 
hend, that that was Archy — her Archy — the scholar 
and the gentleman of her imagination, treated as 
infamous. Mrs. Cairn clutched at Jean’s arm, to save 
herself from falling with the sickness that seized her; 
Jean turned mechanically — saw who it was, and at 
once renewing the eternal struggle with self, mur- 
mured — 

“ Wait ! wait ! Don’t judge.” 

And Mrs. Cairn did wait. Both were for the 
moment supported in an unreal strength for endur- 
ance by the awful fascination which such calamities, 
while in actual progress, will exercise. 

They see the drum-major come to the miserable 
man, who appears buried in a stupor; they see him 
cut off from Archy’s coat the cuffs and collar, those 
military, badges which, in modern times, are held as 
symbolical of the military profession and honour, as 
were the spurs in the days of chivalry. They see the 
pieces flung to the ground, as they are torn away, 
with the expression of measureless contempt ; they 
see a drummer-boy advance, with a long halter in 
his hand, having at one end a wide loop or noose, 
which the drum-major places over the man’s neck. 

Jean now turned, and exclaimed in a hoarse whis- 
per, “You must go. I will see you to some safe 
place for a while, and then — ” 

But Mrs. Cairn, with lips that met like the iron 
lips of a vice, and hands that seemed to have the 
strength and tenacity of the same instrument, as they 


126 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


forcibly restrained Jean from making the slightest 
movement, forbad all further question; and Jean 
turned to watch the whole of the sickening cere- 
mony. 

- A pair of boards are now brought forward, and 
the inscription on each is— “ A notoriously bad cha- 
racter.” They are strung round the culprit’s neck ; 
one hanging against his breast, the other resting on 
his back. Thus arrayed, he is placed at the head of 
a procession, having on each side of him a soldier 
with naked bayonet, and followed by the drummer- 
boy, holding the end of the halter. After these 
comes the magnificent drum-major, stalking alone in 
his glory, with plumes portentously nodding; and 
after him follow the band, two and two. 

The music now burst forth. 

“ ‘ The Rogues’ March,’ Jean,” said Mrs. Cairn, 
with a terrible meaning and eloquence in the tone. 

And so the pageant moves on to the left, through 
the open ground in the centre of the parade, until it 
reaches the curving end of the double line of soldiers ; 
then it turns and follows that line, keeping so close to 
it in front that every man can see even the slightest 
play of the muscles in the offender’s face, until the 
opposite curve is reached at the other end of the 
parade. 

“Halt!” thunders the Lieutenant-Colonel. And 
then, as he again gives the word of command, a 
movement takes place all along the line ; and in a 
moment the two lines are facing each other, forming 
a lane between them. 


jean’s dowry. 


127 


“ March !” again thunders the guiding voice. The 
procession winds round, goes through the lane ; thus 
retracing its steps, in order, apparently, that those 
men who were previously at the back shall be able 
to see, more closely, the brother who is to be cut off, 
like a moral gangrene, from their body. 

Simultaneously a soldier leaves the guard-room, 
bearing a knapsack and a canvas bag. There is no 
mistaking their meaning. 

Mrs. Cairn almost laughed out, as she said — 
“ That’s your dowry, my girl.” 

But Jean, beyond a dim sense of something fright- 
ful in the sound of the mother’s voice, heard nothing 
— saw nothing — felt nothing that extended a hair’s 
breadth beyond the central figure of that spectacle in 
front. 

Soldiers come to the gates, and throw them wide 
apart, and the procession advances towards them. 
Jean sees, but has neither time nor power left 
to think what she shall do; every energy of her 
mind, every muscle of her body is paralysed; and 
Mrs. Cairn still presses on her with a constantly in- 
creasing weight. Yes, the procession comes to the 
gates, passes through them into the road, until Archy, 
in his place, is also beyond the garrison limits ; then 
they remove the halter and the boards ; they put the 
knapsaek and bag by his side ; they say, in effect, to 
him, “You are free — and infamous” — and so retire 
and leave him. 

Archy moves mechanically to take up his knap- 
sack, but feels a hand upon his arm. He looks up, 


128 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and there is a great cry heard from him, but not of 
joy, nor greeting ; — a cry impossible to be described. 
His face at the same moment blazes with emotions 
that play over it — now redly lurid, now deeply black 
— as though the fires and smoke of some volcano had 
suddenly blazed forth, and lighted it up. But before 
Jean can speak or be spoken to, that cry is answered 
by another and fainter one — Mrs. Cairn has fallen 
senseless — the blood is oozing from her lips. 

Archy sees — in an instant he is at his mother’s 
feet. 

Such was the meeting of mother and son ! 


CHAPTER X. 


MOTHER AND SON. 

It is an old story, that of the many waiting on the 
a^ )ect of the one; a king perhaps, or a great minister, 
w tched by hungry expectants, laughing when he 
smiles, wretched when he frowns; their entire lives 
apparently incorporated with his, knowing only his 
will and wish, all their faculties submissively offered 
up as so many instruments for the furtherance of his 
views. But greater in this way than king, or the 
mightiest of kingly ministers, is the minister of the 
body politic, the high-priest of Nature, the passer to 
and fro between the domains of Life and Death, the 
witness to so many struggles between those ever-war- 
ring potentates ; who, as if in despair of completely 
foiling each other, or perhaps in sheer weariness, 
sometimes make him the arbiter betwixt them, to 
decide the issue for many a poor human creature, 
hanging breathlessly on the fiat, which his lips will, 
also, first make known to them. What is courtier — 
or any other worldly — homage to this ? WJiat fol- 
lowing, however numerous or individually noticeable, 
can rival his — the Doctor’s — who sees in every ques- 
6 * 


130 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


tioning eye, every faltering lip, every changeful face, 
only so many faithful messengers waiting to carry 
back tidings that may spread the deepest shade or the 
brightest sunshine through those under* worlds of life, 
which are in fact the only real worlds ; as we all find 
out at such periods ; and, as many of us discover, we 
have found out too late. What royalty hath homage 
like this ? What costly favours can kings confer, that 
shall equal in their effect upon us the simple words 
that yonder plain-looking man, in the dark surtout, 
whispers — with a grasp of the hand and slight smile — 
“ Yes, the danger is over !” When the satiated 
monarch offered his princely rewards for a new plea- 
sure, why did not some one claim them, by saying, 
“ O king, learn how to save the life of but one of the 
humblest of thy subjects, and they who love that life 
will give thee all thou desirest !” 

I will not say that Archy, as he watched by the 
corner of a street, the day after the terrible meeting 
with his mother, for the coming of Dr. Simpson, had 
thoughts like these; for his emotions were of that 
tumultuous nature which precludes thought, or at least 
concentrates it upon the fewest possible ideas, and 
with an entire absence of generalization. But what 
he did think was only a series of individual variations 
of the same broad theme. “ Will she recover ? IIow 
much longer will this man be? Can I — can any 
human agency that I might set in operation, save her? 
0 God, if my life might but be accepted ! I hear 
wheels. No, not his. This doctor, does he know — is 
he capable of feeling what hangs upon him ? Has he 


MOTHER AND SON. 


131 


the requisite skill ? Could he not be changed, if— 
Ah ! he comes.” 

A plain-looking brougham drove rapidly up the 
street, and was about to turn the corner, when Archy’s 
hasty movement and gesture caused the inmate to pull 
the check string and stop. 

“ Excuse the interruption, but my name is Cairn.” 

“ What, the son of my patient?” 

“Yes. May I be permitted to tell you, what others 
perhaps may wish to keep secret, the cause of her 
sudden illness?” 

“ Certainly ; the knowledge may be useful.” 

“ She met me suddenly, under circumstances that 
led her to suppose I had been guilty of conduct that 
would make me infamous. I had not time to explain ; 
nor do I know that any explanation at the moment 
would have convinced her. But, oh, sir, she will die ; 
I feel sure she will die under this serious injury, unless 
she can be brought to believe differently.” 

Dr. Simpson gave a dry cough, and paused before 
he spoke again ; and then his words implied to Archy’s 
ear a cruel indifference, that made his very soul 
tremble. 

“ I fear, my friend, you forget that I am a doctor — 
not a confessor.” But as he spoke, he gazed search- 
ingly into Archy’s face, with eyes that had often 
brought to light hidden truth upon unwilling faces ; 
that had even, on one occasion, told their owner he 
had deadly guilt before him, and had prepared the 
way for the conviction of the criminal. But Archy 
met that piercing gaze with even deeper earnestness ; 


132 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and although his face grew at once crimson and dark 
as he spoke, he never for an instant quailed under the 
steady look of the doctor. 

“ I have behaved ill — foolishly — weakly — but, on 
my soul, sir, not criminally ; and all I ask is, that my 
mother shall know that I stake willingly all her future 
’favour upon the issue of my proving this to her, and 
upon my undoing that which she has seen done. But, 
oh, sir, perhaps whilst we talk she is dying ; — perhaps 
before this can even be said to her, which might 
inspire new life, she may be dead!” 

“ Are you in danger for this affair, whatever it 
may be ?” 

“ No ; it is past — in that respect.” 

“You have been a soldier? Nay, it is useless to 
suppose that I could not see that — and yet you do 
not look like a private. Well, I am not fond of 
dabbling in matters that don’t concern me, and still 
less so in matters that I do not fully understand. 
But I am inclined to believe what you say, and will 
see if I can make any use of the fact.” 

Archy’s grateful look, and respectful drawing back, 
were the only answer. The brougham drove on to the 
door of the little lodging-house in which Mrs. Cairn 
and Jean had taken up their abode for the night, when 
they reached Chatham ; and which they now found 
would have to be their abode for many a night ; per- 
haps only to be quitted by one of them alive. Archy 
waited, almost counting every second of time that 
passed during the first five minutes ; and then feeling 
a sense of alarm, that grew every instant stronger, at 


MOTHER AND SON. 


133 


the unexpected delay in the doctor’s reappearance. 
Again he passed, as he had done scores of times 
already, before the window, looking up ; though quite 
aware, from Jean, that the sick-room was at the back 
of the house, and altogether out of the range of his 
vision. He became so oppressed that he thought he 
would walk away a little, to recover himself, before 
again speaking to the doctor. He did so ; then heard 
suddenly the rumbling of wheels, turned, and beheld 
the brougham rolling aw r ay at a rapid pace in an 
opposite direction. The doctor then avoided him ! 
Or, was she in such danger that he was about to seek 
additional aid? 0 Grod! He must — he would see 
her. He hurried along the street, but stopped, as he 
reflected — “Perhaps he has spoken to her, and she 
has convinced him I am a liar — has told him all — 
and he has given me up, and wishes me to understand 
by his behaviour how he will treat me if I again 
address him! Ah, doctor, we’ll see to that, if the 
matter prove worth seeing to. I will go in. Jean 
said I must not come — not yet — not even to speak to 
her. But I know what she meant. It was not that 
she could not leave my mother even for a single 
instant, as she said ; no, it was that she dreaded lest 
my mother might know that I was polluting the air 
in her neighbourhood by my presence. But Jean, at 
least, shall see me.” 

Archy went to the door, and knocked gently. It 
was opened by Jean herself, who had seen him in the 
street, and who now allowed him to follow her into 
an inner room ; where, for a moment or two, neither 


134 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

\ 

of them could either speak to, or look upon, each 
other. But at last, steadying his voice as well as he 
could, he said : 

“ Jean, tell me truly, how is mother ?” 

“Very bad.” 

“You mean” — he paused, with a kind of super- 
stitious fear of the word — “ dangerously so?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then, Jean, I must and will see her.” 

“ Oh, Archy, will you throw away the one chance 
left us ?” 

“ Jean, Jean, I tell you,” cried the young man pas- 
sionately, “ I know mother better than you do. It 
is my disgrace that is killing her. She could battle 
successfully with physical dangers a thousand times 
worse than this, if they were physical only; but 
I know well what she is doing — she is baffling you 
all. She is killing herself. It is her will to die. It 
is her only refuge, she thinks, against this dis- 
honour.” 

“ And how will you change her belief?” 

“Jean, I said nothing to you, I think, when we 
met, but the bare words, ‘ I am innocent ; on my 
soul, I am innocent!’ I can say no more to you now 
— but do you believe ?” 

“I do, Archy, I do indeed,” was the sudden, 
decided reply ; so sudden and so decided, that Archy, 
who had expected there was a great battle to be 
fought with Jean, but one that he could not pause 
to fight now, whilst the more critical one with his 
mother lay beyond — the only struggle he could at 


MOTHER AND SON. 


135 


• present see, or think of — Archy was so stopped by 
the words and tone, that he could not but feel him- 
self suddenly unmanned; and while he took her 
hand, and murmured — “God bless you, Jean,” the 
tears began to roll down his thin cheeks. As to 
Jean, I know not what moved her, for the blood 
rushed to and then from her brow, and her whole 
fcame became so tremulous, that Archy thought she 
would fall ; and he came to her tenderly, and sup- 
ported her, while he reached a chair, and made her 
sit. 

“ I — I — am worn out with want of sleep, and — 
and — ” was all poor Jean could say. 

“ Well, now, Jean, attend to me. I see the danger 
on both sides. Perhaps mother will not listen to me ; 
and the attempt to make her may be fatal. I know 
that. But, on the other hand, she is dying — I feel 
sure of it ; and I, who inflicted the blow, must try to 
save her from the consequences. If she would but 
open her heart for a single instant to me; nay, if 
she only admit the thought, as a mere possibility, 
that I may be undeserving of the treatment I have 
received, she would gradually change, until at last 
I might tell her my whole story; and then, I am 
sure, she would have but one feeling, one desire, to 
help me to right myself.” 

“ It has been tried, and failed.” 

“You mean — ?” 

“ The doctor began to speak' to her about you (I 
knew then you had seen him), and there was a recur- 
rence of the attack, so violent, that I thought she 


136 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

'X 

would have died before its cessation. The doctor him- . 
self was frightened out of all his ordinary calmness.” 

Poor Archy ! — he stood as one paralysed, as he 
heard that. It seemed to destroy the only hope that 
had been buoying him up. 

“ I must go back to her,” said Jean, moving slowly 
away ; after trying in vain to shape out one word of 
comfort for the miserable man. 

“ Jean, tell me this, and I will be guided by your 
answer, as to what I will do. Before the doctor spoke, 
did he find her at all better? Had he then any 
decided hope?” 

Jean hesitated to answer, and Archy saw that she 
did so. Again he slowly but firmly repeated the 
words of the question. Jean felt constrained in truth- 
fulness to reply — 

“ Ho — he seemed uneasy about her, and he drew 
me aside, and said, 1 1 think I must try to turn her 
thought — I fear she is not helping us, as she should. 
Are you in her counsel ? ’ I said, ‘ Yes.’ ‘ And in 
his ?’ he continued, looking at me ; and I said — believ- 
ing you would have wished me to do so — 1 Yes.’ ‘ Ah, 
very well,’ he exclaimed ; and then he went to your 
mother, and said he had something to say to her that 
she ought to hear. But she discovered it in an instant 
— looked at me, oh, with such reproach, thinking it 
was my doing, and said, ‘ Is it about him, doctor — ’ 
but she could say no more, for the blood that — ” 

u Well, Jean, desperate measures are sometimes the 
most prudent. Perhaps, after all, he may have done 
some good. She may regret she stopped him. She 


MOTHER AND SON. 


137 


is naturally just. Yes, I will believe lie has done some 
good. And if, now, she can be made to hear, that I 
wish her to live to see me clear myself from this stain, 
she cannot altogether reject my prayer — cannot abso- 
lutely disbelieve me — she loves me too well for that. 
O Jean, do not fail me now. We must be bold. It 
is our only chance.” 

“ The doctor has absolutely forbidden me to allow 
any one to see her, or to speak to her. Even I must 
be silent for the next few hours.” 

“ And you promised him? ” 

“ I did.” 

“ That’s enough. Now mark, Jean, I will go in to 
my mother’s bedroom. Any attempt to prevent me, 
can only destroy what little chance might other- 
wise arise through my speaking to her. You see 
that?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you hear me say, I will go to her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Now then, what will you do?” 

Jean’s eyes shut for a moment, as if to enable her to 
withdraw for a brief space from the world, from him, 
form everything external, to commune with her own 
spirit alone ; and take counsel as to how she should 
deal with the desperate man whose terrible words yet 
vibrated in her ears — “ I will go to her.” She looked 
up at last, and a sweet light seemed to have settled in 
her eyes, and a sweet but very faint smile ran over 
her face, as she put out her hand to Archy, and 
said — 


138 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE, 

A 

“ Perhaps you are right. Come ! ” 

He grasped her hand, and followed her (not quitting 
his hold for an instant) into the dark passage ; — see- 
ing nothing but the eternal picture of that dear but 
terrible form lying prostrate on the .bed, resolute, as 
he believed, to die without another word said, to any 
human being, least of all to him. Jean stopped, 
and his heart seemed to stop too, before the door, 
which now alone divided him from the reality of that 
picture. Jean turned the handle so noiselessly, that 
only senses like Archy’s could have perceived the 
sound ; and then, loosening his hand, she motioned 
to him to stay there, while she advanced into the 
darkened chamber. Presently he heard a breathing, 
which was responded to by Jean ; who evidently 
either repeated questions that she heard imperfectty, 
or thought she heard, or who was guessing at ques- 
tions that she believed Mrs. Cairn wished to put ; 
which of the two Archy could not discover. 

“Did the doctor seem hurt? — Yes.” 

A long pause. 

“ What did he want to say ? — Why, that he fancied • 
you are in error as to your son’s conduct— that he 
thinks that he has been badly treated — and that you 
ought to get well, and look into the matter.” 

“Iia!” 

Archy heard that exclamation, and felt that his 
time was come. He knew, too well, the terrible issue 
pending. In a minute she might be — but he would 
think no more — he must act. So, putting off his 
shoes, that he might make no noise, but with a feel- 


MOTHER AND SON. 


139 


ing that was akin to the reverence with which Eastern 
worshippers enter the threshold of a shrine, and 
which reminded him of boy days, when she had often 
made him do the same thing, on entering her exqui- 
sitely clean kitchen, he moved a few paces forward ; 
and then, in tones of thrilling,, almost preternatural 
calmness, said — 

“ Mother, before it is too late, hear me — your son — 
say to you, that Jean’s words are true ; that you shall 
yourself live to acknowledge they are true, if you will 
but now remember, that I have never, since that day 
in the orchard, told you a lie, or practised upon you 
one intentional deception. Mother, my life is your 
life. My present dishonour is yours. My future 
acquittal shall be yours too, or I will not trouble to 
seek it. I will say no more till you permit me.” 

Poor Jean! how she hung upon every word, and 
how she dreaded that each would be followed by 
some more fatal outbreak from the motionless form on 
the bed. But, to her inexpressible relief, Mrs. Cairn 
remained silent; until out of the very silence, a new 
fear arose for both the agitated listeners — had she 
fainted? Jean went to the bedside, bent over to- 
wards the averted face, leaned down, kissed it, saw 
shade by shade of sternness roll off, felt a great tear 
coursing down her own cheek, # which would drop on 
the mother’s if she did not turn away^so she did 
turn, but too late, . the big drop moistened the -other 
cheek with a something which seemed natural there, 
though springing from a foreign source, and at last 
there was a low breathing sound — 


140 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ To-morrow ? — Yes. — I will tell him.” These 
words, and another kiss, closed the dialogue. Archj 
had heard — with a mist before his eyes he took and 
wrung Jean’s hand, and — disappeared. 









CHAPTER XL 


AT MIDNIGHT. 

As Archy paced up and down, at midnight, the 
little bedroom at the top of a house which stood 
nearly opposite the one which contained his mother, 
and which he had secured that he might the better 
watch everything that passed, he stopped every now 
and then to look forth, and gaze yet once again upon 
that door and those windows, to see if he could draw 
any meaning out of their blank aspects — any con- 
sciousness of what was going on behind them. This 
had become quite a habit with him during the few 
eventful hours that had just passed. He felt uneasy, 
if by any accident he had forgotten to look upon 
them for many minutes together. And now, as he 
did look, he saw the door open, and the woman of the 
house come forth, cross the street, and — yes — she is 
doubtless coming to him. He ran down, and received 
with agitated hands a scrap of paper on which was 
pencilled — 

“ Don’t be frightened. She is better in mind — you have done 
her good, but she seems to become more agitated in spirits, as 


142 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


she allows herself to think more justly of you, and that weakens 
her. I write to say, I dread the interview to-morrow. May I 
put it off, if she consents ? 

F « Jean.” 

Archy immediately wrote on the back of the paper, 
also in pencil — 

“ 1 leave all to you now. Only save her, and eternal blessings 
be on your head. Let me hear as often as you can. 

“ Archy.” 

The woman went back, and again Archy began his 
endless pacings to and fro, and his thoughts now took 
a turn. “ My mother is in no condition to hear evi- 
dence — to balance opposing probabilities — suspending 
all judgment the while upon matters affecting her life 
(present and future) to the very core. No ; and she 
will be herself the first to perceive hereafter, if she 
does not do it now, any flaws in my case. What 
then ? Let me consider once more. All that can be 
done for her at present is to make her practically 
hope I am innocent of any intrinsically infamous act. 
Such a feeling would certainly buoy her up to struggle 
with this deadly physical danger. Can I not, while 
sparing her for a few days the details, give her some 
additional proof that she may have faith in me? 
Mr. Dell, I have thought of him several times, but 
still I see nothing clear, as to what he could do in the 
matter. He might help me to re-establish my name, 
by and bye, and probably would do so; but the 
present — the present — what can he do to help my 
poor mother ? Ha ! what if I were to offer to submit 
the whole to him, and abide by the result. If I can- 


AT MIDNIGHT. 


143 




not convince him, so that he will act for me, I am 
sure she will not remain convinced. What if Jean 
were to tell her this ?” 

Archy paused thoughtfully — then began to write ; 
but tore up the paper and threw the fragments out of 
the window. The cool night air played refreshingly 
upon his burning brow, and gave him fresh strength. 
He again wrote, and then read to himself, in low 
tones, the following words — 

u Could you, do you think, persuade her to rest — from all 
these terrible agitations, if, instead of my meeting her, you were 
to tell her that I have determined, now that she has listened to 
me, to take a step more decisively calculated to assure her that 
I must be innocent, while sparing her all the torturing labour 
and suspense of listening to, and weighing, step by step, the sig- 
nificance and value of each detail of my story ? What if I go to 
Mr. Dell, confide the whole to him, and ask my mother to 
receive his verdict, till such time as she recovers, and can her- 
self go calmly into the matter ? What do you think ? 

“ Archy.” 

It was some time before he could resolve to deliver 
this, but at last he went down stairs, opened the door 
softly, crossed, and tapped. The woman he had 
before seen came immediately, looking so anxious, 
that Archy forgot his errand, and gazed with whiten- 
ing lips, that could not frame themselves to utterance, 
helplessly in her face. 

“ She be very bad — but, Lord love you, don’t you 
give way. You must keep up these poor creatures. I 
don’t know what’s amiss — that you knows best; but do 
you try to hearten them, that’s what they both wants ; 
and that’s what she wants more than the doctor.” 


144 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“You are right, quite right. I’m here now with a 
thought of that kind. Please give this note. I will 
wait, if you permit me, till you return.” 

The woman took the note, and went away. She 
was a long time gone. Was Jean considering? or 
was his mother too ill for Jean to be able to attend to 
anything else just now? He heard the heavy but 
muffled step slowly returning at last, and presently 
he read these lines — 

“ I have ventured to read her your note, and I can see it has 
given her great relief. You have anticipated thoughts that were 
in both our minds. I do think now she will rest. She has 
great confidence in Mr. Dell’s judgment ; and altogether I can 
see your project relieves her greatly. Wait till after the doctor’s 
visit in the morning. I will confide to him as much of what has 
passed as will enable him to judge of her state and prospects. 
If he thinks you may safely leave her, I recommend you to go 
away at once. It is her mind that has been so destroying her. 
I hope now you have changed her mind. 

“ Jean.” 


“I think she’s better,” said the woman. 

“ Yes, yes, I hope so.” 

“ Would you like to stay here to-night? ” 

“ Oh, if you would but allow me ! ” 

“ To be sure. I haven’t a bed, but there’s the sofa.” 
“ Thank you, thank you !” said Archy, abstractedly. 
After a while he said to her, in a very low tone — 

“ Do you think my mother is asleep ? Oh, if I could 
only look upon her for a single moment.” 

The woman brushed away a tear from her eye, as 
she thought of a somewhat kindred scene, that had 


AT MIDNIGHT. 


145 


once happened betwixt her and a son of her own ; and 
somehow her heart yearned to the poor youth, and 
she began to think he ought to be helped in such a 
natural request. 

“ I shall, for her sake, probably go away to-morrow 
for several days, and therefore if I could now — ” 

“Well, wait a bit while I speak to the young wo- 
man you call Jean.” She returned almost instantly. 

“I was so frightened — I thought your mother was 
fast asleep, and I spoke, I thought very low, but she 
heard every word, and to my astonishment she says 
herself to me — 

“ I should like to see him — we won’t talk.” 

Archy was kneeling by his mother’s bedside before 
the woman was quite aware he had left the room. He 
put up his hand — hers met it — she felt his kisses upon 
it — he felt himself drawn very gently — he half rose 
over the bed — crept nearer and nearer, till lips met, 
too long divided — and then he murmured — 

“ No more, no more. I am happy. Let me rest 
here by your side, till you sleep.” He felt the tender 
clasp answer him — he lay a little apart — once the 
hand loosened itself, and passed over his face and 
brow, and through his hair, then returned to his hand. 
When Jean, after a long silence, through which they 
might have heard her heart beat, had they been capa- 
ble of any perceptions or emotions that lay beyond 
themselves — when Jean came softly to look at them, 
she saw they were both asleep — both looking so 
wondrously like each other — and the moisture still 
undried on both cheeks. 


7 


146 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Jean, who had shared all their trouble, took some 
comfort from their solace. She drew the low arm- 
chair by the bedside, where she could look upon their 
two faces, and be ready to answer the slightest ap- 
peal. Poor girl, she has forgotten for a moment, in 
the very unselfishness of her sympathy, that she 
ought not to trust herself to dwell upon that face, 
which, though sadly changed, was yet far more dan- 
gerous than the little picture she so sternly turned 
away from her in her own room at Bletchworth 
Hall. 


CHAPTER XII. 


MRS. dell’s INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 

“ 0 dear, O dear, was there ever such wretched 
weather for August ? What, no fire !” And up 
went Mrs. Addersley’s yellow, jewelled hands, and 
black eyes, whilst her sharp chin disappeared in her 
swansdown-wrapper, as she stood shivering at the 
door of the great drawing-room, which had been 
prepared for the reception of the few relations and 
neighbours to whom it was necessary for Mr. Dell 
to introduce his wife. The chandeliers were not yet 
lighted, either in this or in the “ long room” beyond, 
the folding doors of which were thrown open ; and 
two wax candles, burning dimly on the broad mantel- 
piece, made only a kind of twilight, in which gilded 
mirrors, picture-frames, and cornices shone out with 
a rich, subdued splendour. The window-blinds were 
drawn down as low as the boxes of flowers. The 
waving shadows from the plants were thrown by the 
moonlight on the white and beautiful carpet. In the 
“long room,” which was left almost empty for danc- 
ing, the windows were wide open, and revealed the 
clear, summer sky, with its full moon and stars. It 


148 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


was the light breeze from these windows which met 
Mrs. Addersley as she opened the door, and that had 
9 called forth her exclamation about the weather. 
Presently, finding no one hurried out to lead her to a 
chair, and to wrap her up, she stretched out her long, 
yellow neck, and peered into the room, wondering 
if there was really no one there, when her eyes fell 
upon a white figure in a veil, standing at a mirror 
(which was opposite to another mirror), and appa- 
rently engaged in gazing down the long vista of 
chandeliers formed by the reflections. It was so 
statue-like and still, that Mrs. Addersley had some 
difficulty in persuading herself that it was that 
u young romp,” as she called Winny ; and her voice 
was a little uncertain, when she said, putting her foot 
on the threshold, “ Is that you, Mrs. Dell ?” But it 
soon found its usual sharp tone as Winny sighed, 
then laughed, and then came to meet her. 

“ Some people have strange fancies, to stand here 
in such a dress as that, with all the windows open, 
letting in the nasty, damp night air — all in the dark, 
too !” Mrs. Addersley then seated herself in a large 
arm-chair by Winny, and chatted away to her ; who, 
on her part, soon forgot her annoyance at being dis- 
turbed in the dreamy enjoyment of the mirror vista, 
the evening breeze, the silence, and the odours of the 
flowers she had herself gathered and arranged amongst 
the quaint old furniture. 

“ What, dressed, Winny !” said Mr. Dell, joining 
them. “ I can hardly see you in this light.” 

“ Oh, she looks very well,” said Mrs. Addersley, 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 149 

looking through her eye-glass critically at Winny’s 
simple wedding-dress. “Very well, but not of con- 
sequence enough for the belle of the evening.” 

“Oh, we’ll leave that to Grace,” Winny said, 
laughingly. 

“ How late Grace is !” said Mr. Dell, looking at his 
watch. “We shall have Sir George here presently.” 

“ Can I go and help her, Mrs. Addersley ?” Winny 
asked. 

“ Oh no, thank you, Mrs. Dell ; she was dressed 
long before I came down — just giving the finishing 
touch, you know. By the by, what an odd freak it 
was of hers to give her maid a holiday just as we are 
going out of mourning, and want so many new 
things. Grace has had to alter her dresses herself. 
She ought to know better than to spoil her figure by 
working all day, while that creature enjoys herself; 
but there, Grace is quite falling into your English 
method of treating servants. Oh, here you are, 
Grace. Ah, you look yourself to-night, ‘child.” 

“ ISTow, Winny, prepare your eyes for a perfect 
blaze of beauty,” said Mr. Dell, as he lighted the chan- 
delier. “ Keally, Grace,” he continued, drawing her 
under it, and turning to Winny with a smile, who, 
with her usual mode of expressing what she felt to 
be unspeakable admiration, was clapping her hands 
softly, with a half sigh, “ really, this is hardly fair 
of her, is it, Winny, to try to eclipse you to-night?” 

“ Hark !” exclaimed Winny, nervously, “ I hear a 
carriage. Your uncle’s, perhaps.” Mr. Dell hurried 
out anxiously, for, having received no answer to the 


150 THE SHADOW IN THEF HOUSE. 

Jp 

invitation he had sent Sir George, he had begurl'to fear 
that his sudden determination to give up public life 
had seriously offended him. 

Grace saw this anxiety with a certain pleasurable 
sensation, as she glanced at herself in a mirror. Her 
dress, into which she had thrown all the taste of the 
artist and the cunning of the woman, in order to give 
it the effect of rare elegance with apparent simplicity, 
was of Indian silk ; costly in texture, yet so soft that 
it made not the slightest rustle when she moved. 
The colour was of deep rose pink — a well chosen one, 
you could perceive, by the warm, rich glow it threw 
upon the arms and neck, that in a general way were 
almost too white to be perfect. Over this floated 
snowy lace of exquisite beauty ; looped up on either 
side with a cord, with long pearl tassels ; the weight 
of which kept it from being lifted, as it would other- 
wise have been, at the slightest breath of air stirring 
near it. The bell-like sleeves (covered by the same 
lace, and finished by a narrow band of pearls, with 
heavy tassels, like those on the skirt) scarcely reached 
the beautifully rounded elbow ; and a broader band 
of pearls at the top of the dress fitted tightly round 
the shoulders. These bands and tassels of pearls 
were the only things in the shape of ornament she 
wore, except a red moss rose, with its long, greeny 
bud and spray of leaves, that nestled in her pale 
brown hair, where the crowning plaits met. 

Winny, a worshipper of beauty in all its forms, 
from the little wild flower by the wayside to the 
majestic grandeur of the mountain height, felt her 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 151 


heart thrill when Grace smiled upon her — smiled tri- 
umphing in the power of her beauty, of which the 
reflection in that sweet, wistful face was so flattering. 
And with Winny admiration was love : so that the 
memory of the beautiful never died. The summers 
she had seen had each a separate glory of its own in 
her remembrance ; and she could call them up before 
her mind’s eye, and distinguish them one from an- 
other, as a mother the faces of her dead children. Her 
soul was as full of love for the past as the present. How, 
under the fascination of the moment, she felt, as I 
have said, a thrill of almost passionate love for the 
■woman who smiled down upon her, with a meaning 
she little guessed. Presently Winny pressed one of 
those beautiful arms to her heart, and kissed it, Grace 
still smiling on, little moved — for had she not seen 
her kiss a flower in just the same way ! 

It was strange, but with all her care for her appear- 
ance, Grace had never, until to-night, cared much 
about studying the adornments of her own beauty. 
The heavy velvet robes, which she had constantly 
worn after laying aside the earliest garb of mourning, 
displayed only her queenliness : that was the effect 
she liked; it satisfied and harmonized with her 
instinct of power ; the dress became a favourite one 
with her. But to-night, while she lost nothing of the 
stately bearing, the conscious majesty, habitual to her 
person, she seemed to have gained wonderfully in the 
softer, more attractive, more womanly qualities, by 
the art with which she arrayed herself — art too, that 
was so disguised that one could not tell in what it con-. 


152 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


sisted. Grace had satisfied herself before she left her 
chamber ; she was still better satisfied when she saw 
the effect upon others. Yes, her first aim for the 
evening was achieved, and the fact augured well for 
the more important schemes she meditated. 

It was not Sir George who returned with Mr. Dell 
to the drawing-room, but Mr. Nicholas Rudyard, the 
brewer and great man of Leatham. With him came 
his two elderly maiden sisters, who were soon engaged 
in condoling with Mrs. Addersley on the hopeless 
defects of the English climate. They were followed 
by Mr. Payne Croft, a barrister, and an old friend of 
Mr. Dell’s. 

As Winny saw the lamps of more than one carriage 
shining through the dark firs along the drive, she 
ceased smiling behind her fan at Mr. Rudyard’s big 
voice, and patronizing manner to her husband ; and 
felt herself growing nervous, as Mr. Dell had pre- 
dicted she would feel, but the idea of which she had 
laughed at, asking him if he supposed they never had a 
party at the old farm, or at Laurel Cottage ? 

And now as, a little flushed and a little trembling, 
she stood beside Grace to receive her husband’s guests, 
and watched each group as it passed before her, she 
almost unconsciously contrasted them with the visitors 
at her father’s house. She compared the stiff bow to 
the hearty squeeze of the hand ; the awkward embar- 
rassing silence, that in spite of everybody’s exertions 
would now and then reign, to the boisterous mirth 
and chatter in which one could not hear one’s own 
voice at those former meetings. But when Sir George 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 153 


Dell arrived, and saluted her with cold frigid polite- 
ness, and presented her with a magnificent bouquet in 
lace paper, a vision of uncle Josh with his round good- 
humoured face, and enormous bunch of flowers— which 
he never came without, which everybody laughed at, 
and which everybody enjoyed — rose up so vividly 
before her that she felt very much inclined to burst 
into tears before the eyes of all. But when she met 
Mr. Dell’s gaze, resting anxiously upon her, she tried 
to shake off the images of home, and to restrain her 
childish emotions. And she succeeded: but still at 
times everything seemed to swim before her vision ; she 
forgot names almost as soon as they were uttered, and 
found herself addressing Mr. Mylde, the poor incum- 
bent of Yelverton, as Mr. Staunton, the owner of the 
largest estate on this side of the county. 

While yet suffering from the confusion of this dis- 
covery, which she imparted secretly to Grace, the 
latter said to her — 

“ Oh, you will soon get over this nervous feeling. 
It is very natural at first. If we could only keep the 
people busy and amused, you would not fancy they 
thought so much of you.” 

“ Ah, Grace, if you would but do for me — what I 
cannot!” 

“You mean, Winny — ?” 

“ Oh, if you would but try to amtfse them — to keep 
them as you say ‘busy’ — to talk with them, and 
make them talk to each other — so that Mr. Dell may 
not grow uncomfortable, thinking he sees them so.” 

“ I don’t think I could do much, but if you fancy — ” 
7 * 


154 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Oh, I do — I do — and I should be so grateful.” 

Grace pressed her hand in token of understanding, 
and lost no’ time in keeping her word. She went to 
Mr. Dell, and intimated what had passed ; and 
although for the moment he looked doubtfully towards 
Winny, and the mere fancy that it implied some sort 
of reproach cut her to the heart as she saw his glance, 
yet an instant after, he smiled, and then laughed right 
out at something Grace said to him whisperingly. 
Presently the musical voice — the bubbling musical 
laughter, were heard — here — there — everywhere; a 
jet of sunshine seemed suddenly to light everybody 
up ; the right people got comfortably together ; and 
no matter what the topic, politics, society, gossip, 
church rates, the assizes, Puseyism, or the last new 
book — Grace had not only something to say that 
pleased the hearer, but that gave the said hearer a 
notion that if he or she had expressed it in words, it 
would have been to some such effect as this — “ Eeally, 
a charming woman — what admirable sense — how 
thoroughly she appreciates one’s meaning and views !” 

If Grace needed any fresh incentive to exertion she 
had it in a chance word that some one dropped to 
Mrs. Addersley, and which set that worthy lady 
laughing so vigorously that Grace came to ask her 
what was the matter ; whilst half-a-dozen other ladies 
also paused to learn the source of the amusement of 
the Indian lady, as they already began to call her. 

“ Why, Grace, excuse my laughing — but — this gen- 
tleman and I have been discussing the bride, and 
though we both paid her many compliments, some- 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 155 

how we seemed to be contradicting each other at 
every word, yet with the most amiable unconscious- 
ness of anything amiss ; and so went on again till it 
got too ridiculous — and then at last he said — 
‘Surely, my dear madam, I have not mistaken the 
person, that tall — elegant — ’ I burst out, I couldn’t 
help it — ‘ Why, my dear sir, that is my daughter — 
Grace Addersley ! — Mr. Dell’s cousin, not his bride.’ ” 
Mrs. Addersley again broke out into loud mirth, and 
the iadies around seemed to join her. The gentleman 
referred to looked confused, and grew evidently very 
hot in the face ; but he strove to carry the matter off 
as gaily as he could, by saying — 

“ As a stranger personally to both ladies I hope I 
may be pardoned my unlucky mistake ; yet in justice 
to myself and other gentlemen who may happen to 
be similarly situated, I would venture to suggest 
that one is apt to come to such an assembly with 
highly wrought expectations; there is something 
magical, for a time at least, in the word bride — and 
then, too, every one knows Mr. Dell’s taste, position, 
and opportunities, so that, if under such conditions 
one happens to see a form realizing, nay, surpassing, 
all that one — ” The gentleman here thought he had 
gone far enough, and bowed to Grace; she slightly 
answered his bow, but her colour rose, and she moved 
away, quite sure in her own mind that she saw plenty 
of listeners there, who would carry about the room 
the fullest particulars of the mistake, and with em- 
bellishments not at all displeasing to herself. 

If Grace could have been eclipsed by any one to- 


156 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


night, the three Misses Staunton would have done it. 
They were fine showy girls in themselves, and always 
dressed with such magnificence that they made a sen- 
sation wherever they appeared, so that party -givers 
were glad to invite them ; until at last they got accus- 
tomed to look upon themselves as the chief stars of 
every assembly they attended. But to-night — when 
they found themselves as usual gathered round Grace, 
amusing her with the chit-chat and scandal of the an- 
nual Leatham ball, which had just taken place, they 
bit their lips with vexation as they looked at each 
other, and saw their magnificent pale pink satins 
growing pallid and washy beside the deep rich glow 
of hers. But the eldest, who, unlike her sisters, had 
not come with any view to conquest, did not trouble 
herself about their ill-concealed jealousy ; she began 
her scrutiny of Winny, who had unconsciously 
dashed certain hopes, very faint ones to be sure, that 
had been cherished by Miss Staunton in her heart of 
hearts. The sisters finding themselves in this agree- 
able state of mind, made for the rest of the evening a 
party of themselves and their own peculiar friends at 
one end of the drawing-room, where they retired at 
the close of every dance to vent their spleen in sati- 
rical criticisms on every one out of their own set. 
This amiable society was joined by many who, hav- 
ing moved in a lower sphere where they were made 
much of, felt themselves not appreciated here. 
Among these were Mr. and Mrs. Rintle and their 
daughter, to whom poor Winny, quite inadvertently, 
had given mortal offence. 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 157 

It was when Grace was standing talking to a stiff, 
.pompous-looking old gentleman, that Winny, touch- 
in'^Jier arm, had said pointing to (fee of the dancers 
— a p'ale and somewhat affected-looking girl in green — 

“ Grace — who is that ?” 

“ Miss Rintle,” Grace answered quickly, again turn- 
ing to her companion. 

“ Poor girl !” continued Winny. “ Surely such a 
delicate, sickly-looking thing ought to be in bed in- 
stead of being decked out in tarletan to dance away 
what little strength she has. Is there no one to care 
for her — to teach her better ?” 

The old gentleman stood a minute in front of 
Winny, looking down upon her with so peculiar an 
expression, that she felt very much inclined to laugh. 
When he strutted away, and she saw him whispering 
to a stout lady in the Staunton circle, she put up her 
fan, and said to Grace, with a roguish smile, for she 
felt she was going to be satirical for once — 

11 Who is he? Tell me his name.” 

“ Mr. Rintle.” 

“ What, the father of — ? ” 

“ Yes, of that poor sickly girl, who can’t take care 
of herself, and has no one to be careful for her,” 
answered Grace, with a still more malicious smile in 
return. 

But Winny grew serious instantly ; and taking her 
place at the dining-room door waited for the qua- 
drille to end, when she had some vague notion of way- 
laying Miss Rintle, and saying or doing something to 
please her before she encountered her father. Mr. 


158 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Dell could not think what was the matter with her 
as he watched her gliding round the dancers, looking 
with her white dress and pale anxious face, among 
their splendid dresses, like a delicate spring blossom, 
blown among the gorgeous summer flowers. Unfor- 
tunately Miss Rintle was dancing with one of the 
Staunton set, who bore her off under Winny’s very 
eyes to their end of the room, so she retired to Grace’s 
side in despair. 

After the business of supper was over, and the 
dancers had exhausted what strength they had gained 
from it, time seemed to drag a little. Nearly every- 
body had joined the Staunton set but Mr. Rudyard 
and the curate and his family, and a sprinkling of 
elderly ladies and gentlemen, looking rather sleepy 
and cross. 

Of course, Mrs. Addersley had not once moved 
from her arm-chair in the corner, where she had been 
holding a little court of her own ; the flash, when- 
ever she lifted her swansdown wrapper, of the chains 
and jewels with which her dress was covered, attracted 
many whom her idle complaints, and not over- 
refined expressions, would have otherwise repelled. 

About this time Winny, forgetting her dread 
responsibilities, had found a little peace of mind in 
talking to Mrs. Mylde, the curate’s wife, about pre- 
serves and babies; whilst Mr. Dell, Sir George, and 
Mr. Rudyard quarrelled with one another over poli- 
tics on the hearth-rug. As for Grace, she seemed to 
grow more and more radiant every hour. It made 
Mr. Dell smile to see how his friend Mr. Payne Croft 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO TTIE WORLD. 159 


(the gentleman who had mistaken Grace for the bride, 
and who had the fame of a confirmed woman-hater) 
was fascinated by the ease with which she conversed 
on subjects seldom grasped by a woman’s intellect. 
Mr. Croft’s eye caught one of those smiles, and join- 
ing the politicians on the rug, he said — 

“ 1 was just asking Miss Addersley for some music. 
Does Mrs. Dell sing?” 

“ Sing !” cried Winny, gaily, and coming up to them 
— “I often wonder how I should live without singing.” 

“Come, then,” Grace said, seating herself at the 
piano, “ I will play for you. What will you sing? 
This?” 

Winny drew back. 

“What do you mean, Grace? You know I can’t 
sing to music,” she whispered over Grace’s shoulder. 

“ Nonsense,” Grace answered in the same tone. 
“You will find it just as easy — sing as you would 
without music, and I’ll keep you right.” Grace then 
struck a few notes of a song which Winny but imper- 
fectly knew. She drew back and was going to refuse, 
when she became conscious of a sudden move in the 
room, and turning her head she beheld the whole 
Staunton set coming in a phalanx towards the piano. 
What was she to do? she asked herself. Would he 
like her to say before all those people she could not 
sing to music ? Besides, she might be able to do it, 
with Grace’s help. Grace said she would. Better 
try, at all events. So she began — very tremulously 
— even the very words she felt uncertain of — and 
directly she heard her own shivering voice breaking 


160 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


upon the cruel silence, the blood rushed to her face 
—she felt she could not go on. She grasped the edge 
of the piano, and making a great effort to speak 
calmly, said with a faint smile — 

“No, I cannot manage it — I never, sang to music. 
You sing it, Grace.” 

“ Do you really wish me ?” said Grace, in a tone 
only audible to Winny. 

“Yes — dear Grace — anything to take their eyes 
off me ” — whispered she back again ; then she sank 
into a chair near the piano and closed her lips tightly, 
to keep down the hysterical feeling in her throat. 

The Stauntons tittered behind their fans, and 
exchanged remarks till the first two or three notes of 
Grace’s voice held every breath suppressed. 

Even Mr. Dell, who, feeling Winny’s breakdown 
almost as acutely as herself, had crossed over, and 
was leaning on her chair, soon found himself forget- 
ting with her everything but that voice which was 
filling the room, and floating out into the quiet night. 

It is true he had faintly heard her in the distance, 
from time to time, practising in her own room, but 
she had never sung to him ; and till now he had had 
no conception of the power and beauty of her voice. 

When she had finished, the Misses Staunton, who 
had the mortification of hearing Grace enthusiastically 
applauded by their own special admirers and follow- 
ers, rose to depart. One of them, the youngest, had 
lost her roll of music, and her two sisters went to seek 
it in an alcove at the end of the room where Mr. 
Staunton was sitting enjoying Grace’s singing. 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 161" 

Winny fancied she had seen the music on a table near 
the alcove, and went to look for it there. While 
searching among the knick-knacks and books, she 
heard Miss Staunton’s satirical voice in the alcove. 

11 Oh, certainly, papa, certainly,” she was saying, with 
her sarcastic stress upon almost every word. “ I 
know many may think her a most engaging young 
person, for a farmer’s daughter ; but what I say is, 
that if Mr. Dell had not more respect for his own 
family in making such an alliance so public, he might 
have had better taste than to bring us in contact, to 
place us on the footing of guests to a — a — person of 
her education and manners, to say nothing of her 
station in life.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” sneered her sister, “ 1 wonder how 
she’ll manage when she’s hailed by the Leatham mar- 
ket-women as acquaintances.” 

“ Perhaps we had some of them here to-night. 
But as regards Mr. Dell, I quite disagree with you, 
Clara ; I think he is very much to be pitied. Con- 
sider his position to-night. What must he have felt 
at all her blunders and absurd mistakes ? Did you 
hear those low remarks of hers about Pintle ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mr. Staunton, a little impatiently 
— “ there is no doubt but that Mr. Dell has made a 
marriage that is likely to prove most disastrous to his 
prospects here.” And he rose to put an end to the 
talk, which he did not care to hear carried on under 
his neighbour’s very roof. 

Winny heard all this — with her eyes fixed on the 
wall before her, with one hand supporting herself by 


162 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


holding tlie table, whilst the other was pressed tightly 
to her heart : she felt then the throbs of its first great 
trouble. 

It was strange how differently the words she had 
heard affected her, to what they would have done any 
other. She felt no anger for the speakers ; not because 
she was too good to feel anger, but simply because 
they did not sting; she felt them only as an over- 
whelming confirmation of a vague dread that had been 
growing up in her heart for the last few hours. Sud- 
denly, after standing a moment, as if stunned, she 
closed her eyes and tried to think. What was she 
doing now — listening? Yes, she must go away. 
They must not see her there. She tried to walk 
steadily down the long room, but directly she turned 
a giddiness came over her, and she beheld all things 
as in a kind of whirling maze. She had vague, 
intangible impressions of chandeliers and mirrors ; of 
old gentlemen walking about tightening their gloves, 
and looking down at their hands, as if they didn’t 
exactly know what to do with them ; and of young 
gentlemen bending over chairs, with young ladies 
looking up in their faces, talking wearily of country 
parties, and longing for the London season ; of very 
young girls whose friends were beginning to take 
them out a little that they might learn how to stare 
strangers in the face without shrinking before they 
went to town ; and of sleepy mammas making signs 
to the young folks that they wished to depart, but 
which signs seemed never properly to reach their des- 
tination ; these and everything else in the room swam 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 163 


in a confused crowd before Winny’s eyes ; a painful 
human phantasmagoria which would not be fixed and 
stable under any effort she could make. But her 
hand was taken and drawn through an arm ; she 
looked up, and saw her husband’s face as she had 
never seen it before— stern and pale. 

“ Winny, you shall stay here no longer ; this is my 
fault. Miss Staunton is right. I should have been 
more careful as to those I invited to meet you.” 

She drew back and shook her head, her pale lips 
moving as if she were trying to speak. She wanted 
to say, “No, I must wait till they are gone, or it will 
make matters worse.” But he did not understand 
her — he thought by her cold silent gestures that her 
heart turned against him as the cause of its pain. 

Presently the Misses Staunton and their father 
issued from the alcove, and sailed majestically past 
without perceiving them. Taking up the roll of 
music Winny followed them with it — her husband 
watching her anxiously. 

11 Is not this your sister’s music, Miss Staunton ? ” 

Mr. Dell started ; could that be her voice? It was 
so unlike, he would hardly have believed it, but for 
the outstretched hand with the roll. 

Miss Staunton turned; she knew where Mrs. Dell 
had been for that music, and blushed with genuine 
shame beneath the sweet mournful gaze of those eyes 
fixed upon her now. 

Every one now made a move to depart. Winny 
went about speaking a few words, in that same con- 
strained voice which so struck Mr. Dell, to everybody 


164 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


who she fancied had been at all neglected. When 
the Rintles went out she followed them, and presently 
joined them in the hall ; and going up to Miss Rintle, 
who was drawing on a thin cashmere shawl, she threw 
over her shoulders a warm and elegant opera cloak, 
saying— 

“ Mr. Rintle, please let her wear this. I was seri- 
ous when I said she is delicate, I was indeed. It will 
make me very uncomfortable if she goes home with- 
out it.” 

Mrs. Rintle was already in the carriage. Mr. Rintle 
bowed stiffly while holding out his arm for his daugh- 
ter to take. She at first bridled up ; then catching a 
glimpse of the cloak, with its handsome jewelled clasp, 
she looked at Winny ; thought of all the exaggerations 
with which she had told the story of her insult ; and 
bursting into tears, made a convulsive move to undo 
the fastening. Winny took her hand, pressed it* and 
pushed her into the carriage, which, after Mr. Rintle 
had followed, drove off, leaving her there alone. 

Mr. Dell was not surprised when he found his wife 
did not return to the drawing-room ; he only longed 
for the time when his two remaining visitors, his uncle 
and Mr. Croft, should retire for the night, that he 
might seek her. 

But they chatted on, and he grew impatient, and at 
last determined to seek his wife, and return, but he 
met Grace just outside the door; she arrested his 
footsteps. 

“ Cousin, let me go to her first — I have not had a 
moment lately to speak to her. You , I know, have 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 165 


not been deceived by the mask I bave worn to-night. 
She may be.” 

He pressed his cousin’s hand with a thankful look, 
as he replied — 

“ Dear Grace — our warmest friendship can never 
show you how we have appreciated your noble efforts. 
Go to her if you wish, but don’t think for one mo- 
ment she has not understood them as well as myself. 
Tell her I am trying to get Sir George and Mr. Croft 
to end their discussion.” 

She stood and watched him till he disappeared in 
the gloom of the passage leading to his favourite 
antique room, adjoining the study, whither he went 
to fetch some pamphlet he had been lately reading, 
and which had been adverted to in the discussion 
with Sir George. 

“Our friendship,” echoed Grace, in an undertone 
of bitterness, while her form dilated, and her eyes 
flashed beneath the meeting brows. “ Our friendship.” 
But again the cold indescribable light — hardly to be 
called a smile — flitted across the gloom of her counte- 
nance, and her thin lips moved with a low stifled, 
“ Hush ! Wait !” She then threw on her cloak, and 
descended the stairs in search of Winny. 

Mr. Dell started, as opening the door of the old 
room he saw Winny seated in the great chair — his 
own — in the centre of the window. The moonlight 
was full upon her face, and he saw she was weeping, 
though her eyes were closed. 

“ Winny — you are pained — you think I should 
have foreseen this.” 


166 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


She stopped him. 

“ I pained ! do you think I could have heard I had 
brought trouble upon you, without being pained ?” 

“ Winny, you do not surely believe such gossip has 
had any effect upon me.” 

“ Yes, I do — I know it — I saw how pale you were 
— you almost trembled when you took my hand.” 

“Well, then, I answer you in your own way, and 
with equal truth. Do you think I am not pained to 
see I had brought on you such remarks? Surely, 
Winny, you do not suppose I had any other feeling 
than scorn as regards their meaning?” 

“Still,” rejoined Winny, mournfully shaking her 
head, “ what they said was true. I have been dreaming 
strangely — picturing to myself an ideal world, which 
I alone, it seems, was silly enough to inhabit. Well, 
I am waked now. I am disenchanted.” Again Mr. 
Dell felt the hot tears on the hand upon which she 
had laid her cheek. He began now to understand the 
intense feeling of depression with which his wife 
received this her first bitter experience of the world. 
She came to meet it with a glad, frank confidence, 
full of love, full of the sense of the wondrous affluence 
of life, the choicest blessings of which seemed to have 
fallen to her. She had felt so grateful for -it all, that 
she wanted to do something to express her happiness, 
and to make those she met the recipients of the 
overflow of her glad emotion. She had not thought 
— noticeably — of her defective education, had not 
weighed much her unfamiliarity with the society in 
which she would be henceforward called on to move. 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 167 

Why should she? They were men and women. 
They could doubtless teach her much by their con- 
verse and behaviour that she should gladly learn; 
they might possibly glean something in return from 
the fresh, happy spirit, that advanced so hopefully to 
meet them. Alas, she did not know what that word 
society meant — that it had no open arms for anything 
so artless and candid as she was ; no appreciation for 
aught that did not come to it stamped with some 
definite mint-mark previously ; no care, in short, for 
anything or anybody, except in so far as he, she, or 
they might help to get up a little excitement for the 
said poor, weary, helpless society’s relief, or amuse- 
ment. How thoroughly hollow, heartless, cruel, and 
unjust it can be in its worst moods ; how much it 
is often dependent for these moods and its opinions 
upon the most contemptible of its members — all this 
she had not even dreamed of as possible ; and she 
stood appalled, heartsick, now, at the discovery of the 
actual truth ; when she connected with it the equally 
painful fact, that it was necessary for her husband’s 
sake that she should become one of that society, study 
its ways, win its approbation, colour her whole exist- 
ence with its hue. 

“ Well,” she continued, in a voice of inexpressible 
sadness, “ what must we do ? I have sat here think- 
ing a long time, but nothing comes to me — but the 
wish, that we had never seen each other.” 

11 Winny ! ” cried Mr. Dell, at once shocked and 
displeased, “ you do not wish that ? ” 

“ Yes, I did, I do. When I was standing in the 


168 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


porch, after these people had gone, I longed — oh, I 
can’t tell you what a longing I had to see my dear 
father and mother — to take off this ring and give it 
back to you and leave these splendid scenes, where 
my breath seems only to be like a poison, and to be 
once again among the humble scenes of my infancy. 
Oh,” she cried, bursting into a passion of tears, “ what 
will become of me if — if — ” 

“ If what, Winny ? ” 

“ If I cannot do for you that which your friends 
expect — if I am to feel through life that I have 
destroyed your prospects — if I have to live, not in the 
hope and happiness of pleasing you, but in the constant 
dread of offending or humiliating you? ” 

“ Winny, do you remember the line in Hamlet, that 
you stopped at, and made me repeat, when I was 
reading to you, and that you yourself so often and 
lovingly iterated afterwards, as though it were an air 
you could not get out of your soul : 

1 Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.’ 

Do you remember it ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“You, my own Winny, are those bells just now, 
and very suspicious, unreasonable, and unjust you 
talk in your jangled state. Pray, Madam, for I am 
going to be very angry with you, do you know that 
in spite of all these little troubles you have magnified 
so portentously, there was an opinion in that room 
curiously opposed, I have no doubt, to all that reached 
you ! ” 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 169 

As Winny did not, perhaps would not show curi- 
osity, he proceeded : — 

“ An opinion, let me tell you, that I think worthy 
of attention. Well, hear it, and then judge. It ran 
thus — There was not in the whole assembly one 
woman so truly sweet in her person, or so fresh and 
vigorous in her mind, as my wife ; one woman who 
really knew so much as you know, or who was des- 
tined probably to exercise so much social influence. 
Do you know, I ask, that there was such an opinion 
deliberately formed in yonder rooms ? ” 

“No — no — don’t jest with me, as they did who 
said so.” 

“ On my honour I do not.” 

“Whose opinion, then, was it?” 

“ Mine.” % 

What radiance was it that suddenly illumined the 
sad countenance, and made the tears glitter in the fair 
eyes, as they turned, and looked on Ins ni^nljj sym- 
pathetic, and half-smiling face — a radiance that kept 
on growing, and brightening, and silvering, like some 
fair cloud under the rays of the moon, when the 
glorious luminary is being rapidly freed from a coil of 
envious shadows ? Thus Winny’s face brightened at 
last into a smile, fair but pale ; and then colour came, 
and the smile grew of a rosy hue, though timorous 
and changeable, as doubting the fact or propriety of 
its own existence : until at last broke a low laugh — 
delicious music to Mr. Dell’s ear — but there she stop- 
ped, for the tears would not be restrained so sud- 
denly — they had not gathered so bountifully for no- 
8 


170 


THE SHADOW INuTHE HOUSE. 


thing, they would forth, but they were happy ones ; 
and they bathed his face too, as the arms were raised, 
and clasped about his neck, and the tender bird-like 
form was pressed to the sheltering breast. After a 
while she murmured — 

“ Oh, do not let the world part us, whatever God 
may do.” 

“ The world, Winny ! Why does my own stupid, 
silly little wife not see that I feel for it the utmost 
contempt? That I would not sacrifice one bit of 
genuine reality to save its soul alive ? But then you 
know ’tis such a poor soul to save ; so don’t think me 
unchristian. What! I sacrifice you for that ! Why, 
I would not sacrifice even my own mere tastes and 
fancies in such a cause, unless some new spirit, with 
some savour of health in it, came over this said soci- 
ety. No — no ; I play with the world as it plays with 
me, pleasing myself in my own way, and trying once 
in a season (as to-night) to please it in its way. But 
I never did get on well in the process, and I am 
delighted to see you can’t much help me.” 

“Well, but what is to be done? No more delu- 
sions, however sweet. You may calm me easily now, 
but not when I get to myself alone, unless you do it 
honestly, thoroughly. Mind that I don’t think I 
should so much fear the world, if I must buckle 
armour on. But oh, I wanted to love it — to be loved 
by it. Well, what is now to be done ?” 

“ Nothing — but smile at the world’s folly, and your 
own, for being moved \)y it.” 

“ Oh, yes, there is. I will not consent knowingly to 


MRS. DELL’S INTRODUCTION TO THE WORLD. 171 


shame you. That which your wife ought to do, I 
must do — or — ” 

“ Well, here is my advice; take it just for what it 
is worth. Do that which you feel requisite in the 
way of preparation to secure your own ease and com- 
fort of mind, when you may have occasion to go into 
the world; and when you have done so, don’t give a 
second thought to the subject. Eemain yourself in 
every 'essential, or I warn you I shall love you less — 
however dearly. You will be surprised some day to 
find that society is just as cowardly as it is conven- 
tional ; and that when once you have fulfilled its 
ordinary routine conditions, you may be as original, 
as individual, as you please, if only you don’t trouble 
yourself to ask whether society does or does not ap- 
prove. Give society nothing to do in judging of you, 
and it is wonderful how well it will do it.” 

Winny laughed. Mr. Dell continued — 

“ You know what Grace and I told you about Mrs. 
Cairn ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; and now I see it all, what you and Grace 
intended, when you mentioned her name before. 
You wished to spare me possible mortifications that I 
was too much self-engrossed to be apprehensive of. 
You wanted to make me know, in a quiet, loving 
way, how much I was ignorant of — you, and dear 
Grace. Oh, here she is.” 

1 “ Here she is indeed,” said Grace, laughing. “ Why, 
Winny, I’ve been searching all your favourite haunts 
in the house for you.” 

“ Grace, husband,” Winny said, standing between 


172 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


them, and taking a hand of each, “ I have found you 
both out. Well, do now what you were going to do 
for me. Mrs. Cairn will not find me such a thankless 
pupil as she might have done before to-night. They 
said I learnt quickly at school what little I did learn ; 
but then I disliked it because I saw no use in it — but 
now — ” 

She clasped their hands and raised her head — the 
eyes half shutting as she did so — while the strength 
of will playing about the muscles of the sweet qui- 
vering mouth, and shining out upon the noble white 
brow, staggered even Grace Addersley. She began 
to respect her mortal enemy. Winny then spoke in 
low measured accents — 

“But now, if, striving with all one’s heart, and soul, 
and strength, I can conquer, I will” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


SAD DOINGS OF JOHN SHORT. 

Going one morning into the kitchen when no one 
expected her, Mrs. Dell came suddenly upon Meggy 
and the Cook in a somewhat unusual attitude towards 
each other. Something was evidently wrong, yet it 
was not easy to guess what. Both were silent, and 
neither was inclined to be the first to speak. That 
was not surprising as regards Meggy; it was very 
strange, however, as respected Cook. Mrs. Dell 
glanced from face to face. For once Meggy looked, 
she thought, as though the least possible shade of 
obstinacy — not to say defiance, had crept into her 
countenance, which, however, was carefully turned 
away. Cook, on the other hand, red, puzzled, and 
indignant, seemed to be feeling the growing heat and 
smoke of an incipient quarrel, which would neither 
go on nor go off. Mrs. Dell dashed in, hoping to 
create a diversion — 

“ Meggy, you’ve done your work, why don’t you 
go out a bit? Don’t you care about going out? 
Didn’t you like your last walk ?” 

This was but a simple question, certainly; but sim- 


174 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


pie questions have done a good deal of mischief in 
their time, and the present was a case in point — only 
it was not Meggy who was to be violently affected by 
it, but Cook. Now Cook had not, on the whole, a 
good temper ; and if Mrs. Dell had said to her, “ the 
patties were indifferent the other night, hadn’t you 
better get Mrs. Staunton’s cook to show you how she 
manages hers?” or, “Cook, Mr. Dell says we must 
cut down expenses — would you mind a reduction of 
your wages ?” or, yet again, “ Cook, they tell me you 
were good-looking in your young days, was that so?” 
— had Mrs. Dell asked her any such questions (and 
she could have found it very possible, in thought at 
least, to have done so, for the malicious enjoyment of 
the fun), she would have expected an explosion, and 
been prepared to appreciate it accordingly. But now, 
when she had put only this simple question to Meggy, 
she was startled at the sudden vehemence of Cook’s 
gesture and voice ; and though, when Cook saw the 
look of grave dignity she had called forth, she paused, 
and checked herself, and tidied herself a bit mentally, 
and smoothed herself down before she ventured to 
speak, yet she could scarcely conceal her rage even then 
at the question poor Mrs. Dell had unwittingly asked. 

“ Last walk indeed ! Lor, ma’am, don’t you know 
she went and lost herself, out* and out, and frightened 
me out of my senses, and come home in a pretty 
pickle ? Pray don’t talk o’ sending of her again ; the 
very mention of it brings on them rompin’s in her 
head, and no wonder. It was a fright for her, ma’am, 
she won’t forget in a hiyry. I know I wouldn’t 


SAD DOINGS OF JOHN SHORT. 


175 


answer for her head, ma’am, if she got such another, 
and that’s a bit o’ my mind.” 

‘ £ Lost herself?” repeated Mrs. Dell, vainly trying 
to discover any traces in Meggy’s face of the awful 
terrors of the occasion referred to. “ How was she 
found then ?” 

“ Oh, I asked John Short to look about him wheu 
he went home that Monday night, and knowin’ what 
a fright I were in, he were good enough to pick her 
up and bring her home. There, look at her, ma’am ! 
I told you she couldn’t bear talk of it. Catch me a 
lettin’ her go trapesin’ out agin if I knows it !” 

“ Oh, she will manage better next time,” observed 
Mrs. Dell ; “ but what’s the matter with her now ?” 
for Meggy’s face was in eclipse once more behind her 
apron, and her frame was seized either with one of 
those convulsive gasps which denoted going off, or 
with something so like in their partially veiled effects 
that it was hard to perceive the difference. 

“ What’s the matter with her, ma’am ?” repeated 
Cook, growing redder, and hotter, and more indignant 
every instant, and bearing with one hand heavily 
down upon poor Meggy’s shoulder, while the other 
was spread out on the girl’s back preparatory to the 
usual operation of “ bringin’ to” — “ what’s the matter, 
ma’am ? Oh, it’s that fine Monday ’scursion. I expect 
she’ll bear the shakes on it too, ma’am, till the end of 
her blessed days, that I do. You can’t speak on it, 
but off she goes, so.” 

“ Dear me,” said Mrs. Dell, “ what can be the 
reason ?” 


176 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Oh, it don’t take many fools to tell that,” answered 
Cook, as she ceased belabouring Meggy’s back, and 
tried to set her up in the chair, and to pull the apron 
from her face, which somehow Meggy held uncom- 
monly tight. “ Sit up, do, and leave a suffocatin’ o’ 
yourself, will you? Why, it’s just this, ma’am” — 

“ But sit down, Cook,” interposed Mrs. Dell, “you 
should rest when you can,” and Cook gladly did so, 
for she was heavy and found much standing arduous; 
but she kept the while a fiery eye upon Meggy as she 
continued, “John Short’s a bin a talking nonsense to 
her, ma’am. You’d think now that you might trust 
a man so sparin’ o’ breath, but Lor bless you !” and 
there Cook shrugged her shoulders : language didn’t 
suffice to express the disgust she felt. 

“ What did he say, Meggy ?” inquired Mrs. Dell, 
looking with mingled pity and mirth upon the ex- 
haustion evinced by the girl in the state of “ cornin’ 
to.” 

“Now, then, can’t you answer?” cried the Cook, 
folding her arms, and preparing to get the truth at 
last, under cover of Mrs. Dell, that she had vainly 
striven to extract from Meggy by her own indepen- 
dent action. Meggy made no answer, but her man- 
ner showed she was perfectly conscious of her posi- 
tion. Presently she began to roll up her white 
apron in her trembling red hands, much to Cook’s 
annoyance, whose fingers itched to be at her, but 
who refrained from interrupting the confession she 
had determined to extort. So she watched her, grimly 
silent, with a sort of stony patience, until Meggy 


SAD DOINGS OF JOHN SHORT. 


177 


found a new relief in squeezing lier starched apron 
up in her hands, as if wringing imaginary water from 
it, when Cook burst in with — 

“ Let that alone, do, and answer your missus, you 
miserable, ditherin’, shakin’ thing, you ! Do 3^011 
hear ? What did John Short tell you that set your 
head a goin’ faster nor ever ?” 

“ Mum — mum — must I ?” half sobbed, half lisped 
Meggy, having recourse to the screen of her hands, 
now that the apron was denied to her. 

“ Oh, certainly you must,” said her mistress, laugh- 
ing. “ Come, what was it ?” 

“ Oh, ma’am, he said that — that — that I wasn’t so 
bad-looking, after all, as Cook made out ; but it 
wasn’t my fault, ma’am ; it wasn’t, indeed ! That’s 
all, ma’am ; and I couldn’t help it ; and I — ” And 
there, Meggy, regardless of Cook’s look of utter con- 
tempt, snatched up the forbidden apron, and ran off, 
whether crying or laughing Mrs. Dell could not 
make out, into the dairy. 

“Well,” said Cook, leaning back in her chair, and 
contemplating the dairy door in the distance with a 
kind of forced benevolence, “so that’s it, is it? 
Well, I thought it were somethin’ o’ the kind. Can’t 
deceive me. I wanted to bring her out. Wh)r, 
ma’am, afore that day the gal ’ud no more a thought 
o’ lookin’ in a glass than Rebecca yonder ’ud think a 
goin’ a week without; and now, ma’am, I never 
goes up-stairs but what I finds her a grinnin’ at her 
sweet visage, that ‘ an’t so bad as Cook makes out !’ 
The young hussy! So, that’s it, is it? Well, I’ll 
8 * 

i 


178 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE, 

v. 

see how she goes out again in a hurry, or how I«sends 
John Short to look after her. But I’ll have a talk 
with John, ma’am ! He won’t come here, perhaps, 
for a week or two to come. Oh, I know him ! But 
I paid him a visit at Leatham, a while ago, and I’ll 
pay him another soon. The gal shan’t go to ruin 
under my very nose ; trust me, ma’am, for that.” 

“ Well, but, Cook,” remonstrated Mrs. Dell, “don’t 
go too fast. If he has only said that much to Meggy, 
it would be hard to — ” 

“ I knows John Short, ma’am — you don’t. I beg 
your pardon, ma’am ; but when I sees that poor inno- 
cent — and he a sly, deceitful fellow, as never lets you 
know his right mind, but lets your best days go while 
he’s a playin’ fast and loose with you — ” Here Cook 
was so struck with the expression of her mistress’s 
face, at once penetrating and arch, that she stopped 
in some confusion and consciousness, which was not 
lessened when Mrs. Dell remarked — 

“ Oh, I can take your word for it, Cook, John 
Short is a dangerous man.” And before Cook could 
reply, her mistress was gone ; and before she reached 
the end of the corridor, Cook could hear her with 
difficulty stifling her laughter, and at last, pretending 
to stumble over one of the pups, gave way to a clear, 
bright, ringing, and most contagious mirth, that pene- 
trated to every part of the mansion. Cook listened, 
and set her face grimly. It didn’t matter, she thought. 
Nothing mattered just then. Presently, though, she 
said — . 

“ This day fortnight look for me at Leatham, John 


SAD DOINGS OF JOHN SHORT. 


179 


Short, if you don’t come here before !” That was 
the only comment Cook made ; and there was a stolid 
determination about the accompanying look that 
boded ill for poor John’s peace on the threatened 
day. 


CHAPTEB XIV. 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 

Mrs. Cairn was better the day after her interview 
with her son, as Jean had anticipated she would be. 
The doctor grew quite cheerful and sanguine over 
the case ; Archy might go away in full satisfaction 
that the danger was over. But, nevertheless, Archy 
did not go, for he saw with inexpressible gladness 
that his mother did not want him to go — not yet. 
She said little, and did not trust herself even to look 
at him very often, or to dwell long when she did look ; 
but there was an unmistakeable tenderness exhibited 
towards him that told how the heart of the proud, 
stern, strong woman had been controlled and kept 
down while she remained in the conviction of his 
utter unworthiness : and how, under the new hope, 
it was rebelling against all such control, and re-assert- 
ing the ties of blood and maternity. Ah ! yes, that 
returning faith in him was everything to her — and to 
him 1 And how shall I describe Archy’s behaviour 
during the days of convalescence? How he hung 
upon her glances, anticipated her every wish, sup- 
ported her with arm so gently yet firmly entwined 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 


181 


round the waist if she wished but to move a step or 
two, drew the shawl about her if she gave the slight- 
est quiver that might imply cold ? And when one 
morning he persuaded her to go out in a steamboat 
upon the Medway, never surely did lover watch with 
more earnest gaze the slightest change of the dear 
countenance than did Archy, as he sat upon a coil of 
ropes at her feet. 

And Jean, poor Jean, I wonder what she felt to 
see him there who had once been esteemed her lover, 
and was supposed to have intended to become her 
husband ? She knew, she believed, quite well that 
she was moving for a time in a charmed atmosphere, 
where love was predominant, but not the love that 
had enthralled her imagination ; that Archy’s soft 
undertones, and his little genial familiarities, and his 
constant solicitude for her comfort and welfare, were 
only natural manifestations of his new state of being, 
overflowings from the great abundance of his affection 
now that the hidden fountains were set free. And 
yet at times she was alike frightened and pained to 
discover that she was again listening to him as she 
had once before listened ; that insidious suggestions 
were creeping into her ear, mingling among her 
thoughts, stirring the deepest recesses of her heart, 
and whispering, “ Jean, it was you he was looking at 
then, with that long inquiring gaze “ Jean, it was 
you who were just then occupying his secret thoughts, 
for did he not again and again dwell on and recur to 
the same topic, while he questioned you about occur- 
rences in his absence !” “ Ah ! Jean, it was not you 


182 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


alone who lost control over the tell-tale cheek ; for 
the kindling blood on his face responded to that of 
yours when certain dangerous references to old times 
crossed and startled . the conversation.” And then 
Jean’s soul, somehow, could not answer these whispers 
with her usual clearness of vision, but began to seek 
for explanations and artificial defences against she 
knew not what. “ Yes,” she said to herself, “ his 
mother has been talking to him, and he thinks, per- 
haps, he ought to be very kind to me, and considerate, 
and grateful — yes, even grateful, perhaps — for what 
I have done. Na y, possibly he thinks he ought to 
fulfil the old engagement, and — ” and there the vision 
passed, with all its illusions, and Jean stood once more 
alone beneath the cruel light of despair, hopeless but 
determined, recognising all her hopeless self ; and 
then the harshness returned to her voice, and the look 
of painful constraint to her face ; and no one knew 
wherefore. Archy wondered and was troubled, but 
remained silent — quite silent. 

And at last they returned home. And Mrs. Cairn 
sank with a deep sigh of relief into the old arm-chair, 
and seemed to say without words, as she looked 
yearningly round upon the little place where she had 
lived so long, and where her dear and honoured 
husband had died, “ Never more to le&ve thee again ! 
Never — never more !” And Jean slipped quietly in 
to Bletchworth the same evening, and told the story 
of their adventures to Grace, who listened as one 
rapt; and who in return gave Jean the expected 
promise that everything she could do to promote the 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 


183 


interests of Mrs. Cairn and tier son she would do ; 
and inquired when Mr. Archibald would come, and 
as Jean answered “ to-morrow morning,” she walked 
away, and stood looking across under the cedars 
towards “ Grey Ghost Walk” so long, that Jean 
thought she would leave her to her thoughts, and pay 
her respects to Mrs. Dell, but her movement was 
arrested — 

“ Jean!” 

“Yes, Miss?” 

“ It seems to me that the future fate of your 
lover — ” 

“ Oh, Miss Addersley ! do not, I entreat you, ever 
use that word again ; he is no lover of mine.” But 
Jean could say no more ; — the face which had flushed 
into sudden scarlet had now almost as suddenly 
changed to the pallor of death. 

“ I am really, then, to understand, that you do not 
care anything about him ; or, what to a woman of 
spirit means nearly the same thing, that he cares 
nothing about you.” 

“ We are friends, Miss Addersley, and can never be 
anything more,” said Jean, with a kind of reproachful 
dignity of tone ; for though she did not exactly like 
to resent this kind of inquisition — to complain of this 
torturing rack to which she was being subjected — yet 
she felt that she might presently be compelled to 
do so. 

“Ah, well, Jean, you may trust me; I understand 
now, and will keep your secret. Well, to recur to 
what I wanted to say. Mr. Archibald’s future fate, 


184 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


it seems to me, depends very much, upon the reception 
Mr. Dell gives him ?” 

“ Oh, it does indeed.” 

“ Well, now, can’t we ladies — myself and Mrs. 
Dell — aid him a little?” 

“ How, if you please ?” 

“ Why, men are apt to be hard and logical, and to 
resist everything that can stir their sympathies till 
they have first satisfied their colder judgments ; and 
yet — granted for a moment that Mr. Archibald’s 
story prove to be truthfulness itself, he may falter 
and lose courage in so painful a. position; and the 
more so, I think, because he will expect in Mr. Dell 
half a judge, half a friend, and will get confused at 
times as to which aspect is before him.” 

“Ah, yes, Miss Addersley; that is just what I 
should expect.” 

“Well, now, suppose 1 was present, and Mrs. Dell 
also. He has my sympathies already ; and his very 
sensitiveness and falterings — if they should show 
themselves — would touch Mrs. Dell’s womanly heart ; 
and I need not tell you that to win the wife here is 
to go a long way towards winning the husband.” 

“ Yes, but—” 

“ But what?” 

“ Mr. Archibald is — I am sure of it — confident fo 
his own case, and would wish to appeal to Mr. Dell’s 
judgment, and not to his feelings.” 

“ Jean, forgive my question, but do you know that 
the punishment he has been subjected to is one never 
inflicted, so far as I have heard, on any but men who 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 185 


are esteemed — really I don’t like to use the word to 
you — infamous ?” 

Jean pressed her ' hand upon her brow as she 
answered, “ Oh, yes, I guessed as much from what I 
saw.” 

“ Then do you not perceive what an uphill fight 
he has to maintain ? His own mother, you tell me, 
was turned against him and convinced by the mere 
spectacle, without a word.” 

Jean’s lips moved, but she could not speak. She 
saw clearer than she had ever before seen, how fearful 
were the obstacles in Archy’s path ; and she turned 
to Grace, piteously appealing by her looks for help. 

“Well, do you not better understand what I 
meant ?” 

“ Oh, yes, thank you.” 

“ Well, now, can’t you manage so to prepare Mr. 
Archibald that he will be willing and desirous to 
speak in our presence, if circumstances appear to be 
favourable to his doing so ?” 

“ May I say that you decidedly think he should do 
so, even for his mother’s sake ?” 

“ Yes — if you don’t directly connect me any 
further in the matter. That would not be pleasant. 
I speak, in fact, Jean, chiefly on account of my in- 
terest in you. I have never treated you as a servant, 
you know.” 

“I am very grateful, believe me.” 

“Quick then. I will spare you this one more 
evening to add to the many of your long absence. 
Do what }^ou can or that you think best, and depend 


4 


186 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


upon my good offices. Only, Jean, continue what 
you have hitherto always been — frank with me. 
There, that ’ll do. Do you want any money ? No ! 
Well, draw some should you need any. Good night, 
good night, Jean.” * * * * 

And how was Archy feeling as the period of his 
trial drew nigh, upon which hung everything that 
could make the world and life worth possessing ? If 
he did rely, as Jean said he did, upon appealing 
simply to Mr. Dell’s judgment, it is very certain that 
the host of tumultuous thoughts that kept pressing 
in upon him, addressed themselves not to his judg- 
ment, but to his feelings, which were little able to 
answer them. A great shadow seemed to have arisen 
out of the earth ; and though forgotten for a time 
during his anxiety for his mother, and in consequence 
of the many emotions that thence arose, he saw with 
increasing alarm the portentous darkness grow and 
grow, and shut out one object after another — flowers, 
frees, skies, stars ; and still it seemed to darken, and 
to thicken, and to threaten, till he felt as one stifled, 
and ready to cry out in his terror and despair, “ O 
God, help me, that I escape !” 

His mother was safe once more and at home — but 
for how long? If Mr. Dell should hesitate in the 
least, there would need no more to convince Mrs. Cairn 
that her worst apprehensions had been true; and 
Archy knew her too well to dream of there being the 
remotest possibility of a second time modifying an 
unfavourable judgment. Never was sentence passed 
by a judge in high and solemn assembly, more fatal 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 


187 


than would be that word from Mr. Dell, which should 
first convey to Mrs. Cairn’s mind the idea “ he disbe- 
lieves my son’s story.” 

It was while his soul was thus secretly tossing 
about upon such stormy and alarming speculations, 
that Jean unexpectedly returned from the Hall, and 
said to him — 

“Well, you will find one friend to-morrow.” 

“ And that is—?” 

“ Miss Addersley,” and then Jean told him the sub- 
stance of what had passed, and with so much more 
instinctive tact and delicacy towards him than Grace 
had succeeded in infusing into the conversation with 
herself, that Archy saw nothing but the kindly, 
graceful act of the lady, who thus stretched out a 
friendly and sympathizing hand towards him ; and he 
felt so glad, so grateful, so relieved in every way, that 
he could have worshipped her as an unseen, but reli- 
giously-believed-in goddess, suddenly descended from 
the skies, for his special comfort and protection. 

Archy’s character was complex and }^et not difficult 
to understand. His instincts were good, but his judg- 
ment wavering, if not exactly weak. He desired 
well, but could not bring his will to the level of his 
desire. His principles were admirable, but seldom 
got time for any useful evolution, so constantly and so 
rapidly did his impulses carry him off out of their 
range and control. His was a loving, refined, and 
sensuous nature, akin to the artist’s and the poet’s in 
temperament, but utterly lacking their creative power, 
or the native strength that must underlie as a base to 


188 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


their work. He lacked weight and balance ; and so 
remained, as yet (for, be it remembered, he was very 
young), a mere creature of circumstances, laughing in 
all sunshine, depressed in all periods of shade. 

As he listened to Jean, one of his rapid changes of 
feeling came over him. 

He began, in thought, to ask himself wanderingly, 
as to the personality of this new divinity, and was 
framing a question or two to put to Jean, but that was 
only a momentary impulse. “ Ask Jean ?” thought 
he, “no, no.” He dismissed the idea, with a natural 
and manly delicacy, and turned with a radiant face, 
saying— 

“ Oh, Jean, you have comforted me more than I can 
tell you. It may be weakness, but I was dreading 
this interview to-morrow. The relief from torturing 
thoughts that your and mother’s kindness has given 
me of late must end I know. It has been indeed a 
blessed relief, Jean, but the necessary change now 
seems only the more awful. Mr. Dell was my play- 
mate when we were boys, my friend in early man- 
hood, and now to meet him and tell him, and to have 
to ask myself what is passing secretly in his breast as 
he listens — !” Then Arcliy stopped; and Jean saw 
the cold drops of perspiration oozing forth on his 
brow and his colourless face, and she would have 
spoken if she could, but she could not, and presently 
he went on. “Well, well, ’twill soon be over. If 
he is not changed, I shall certainly satisfy him. I 
will think no more till the morning and the hour 
arrive. Jean I am glad you stay here to-night. 


MRS. CAIRN AT HOME ONCE MORE. 


189 


Somehow I seem happier when yon are by. Good 
night !” 

Jean murmured something that was inaudible, and 
moved hastily away. 

And so they parted for the night. 


CHAPTER XV. 


ARCHY LISTENS TO THAT WHICH HE SHOULD NOT. 

Archy, at waking next morning, during high sun- 
shine, leaped cheerily from bed, dressed, breakfasted 
before the others were up, placed everything ready 
for their breakfast without the least noise or the least 
omission, and stepped forth. It was early — too early 
yet — to present himself at the Hall. How sweet the 
dear old place looked, how freshly smelt the air! 
He would walk an hour or two away — visit his old 
haunts — ascend to Norman Mount, near and over- 
looking the Hall, and commanding a fine expanse of 
country. He stopped to pick flowers from the hedge 
as he went along; he paused inquiringly for some 
minutes, looking up into the old oak, to see what had 
become of the two squirrels that a moment before 
had been playing round and round the trunk, as 
though unconscious of, and untroubled by, the ordi- 
nary laws of gravity. 

Once even, he burst out into a fit of song, but he 
repressed it with a sense of vexation and impropriety ; 
and then a moment after, he thought with pardonable 
satisfaction, “Well, that is not exactly the conduct of 


ARCHY LISTENS TO WHAT HE SHOULD NOT. 191 

a guilty man, I suppose/’ But tlien lie grew more 
serious. The mount was a high one, almost a hill, 
and was half wild, half cultivated ; with seats placed 
here and there at different elevations, each spot chosen 
by an exquisitely appreciative eye. Archy knew the 
mount belonged to Mr. Dell, and guessed it was he 
who had made these welcome additions to it. He 
would not pause till he reached the top ; and while 
he was looking about with a charmed gaze at the 
serene pastoral loveliness of the country, almost every 
object in which had a tale or a recollection for him, 
he was suddenly conscious of a voice near him. Very 
sweet it was, though too low for him to distinguish 
more than its tones. Cautiously he approached the 
bush-clad verge, where it went sheer down, for per- 
haps thirty or forty feet. Dividing the foliage gently, 
he saw on the natural terrace just below, a female 
figure, habited in one of those charming, yet simple 
costumes, often worn of late years by ladies, as a kind 
of half undress for mornings — a frock of simple 
brown holland, trimmed with white, jacket the same, 
and a straw hat, which for the moment was laid 
aside, leaving the beautiful hair, as though not yet 
under due restraint for the day, to fall loosely about 
in its natural ringlets. But the face ! Archy thought 
he had never in his life seen one so spiritually beau- 
tiful. Who could it be? Miss Addersley? The 
incident and ideas of the previous evening had sent 
Archy’s imagination so powerfully in that direction, 
that he could not readily divest himself of their influence 
now. Or was it Mrs. Dell ? But that was not likely. 


192 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Young married women do not steal thus into solitude, 
and more particularly in early September mornings. 
No, doubtless it was Miss Addersley. He could not, 
of course, speak to her, stranger as he yet was. And 
he must not watch her, or listen. But he did both, as 
the youthful, graceful figure rose and wandered to and 
fro, strangely contemplative; now gazing on the 
ground, now off* into the furthest distances of the deli- 
cately tinted sky, but always as in a continuity of 
thought, which never seemed to be absolutely broken 
by any passing incidents, no matter how much they 
interested her. Thus she saw a great black crow rise, 
and sail heavily along, a few yards from the ground, 
his shadow also passing along on the grass below, so 
that it was hardly possible to avoid the illusion there 
were two birds moving in mystic harmony together. 
She saw — watched the double apparition to the 
farthest possible point of sight, gave a little' sigh, as it 
disappeared, but resumed her walk and meditation, 
as though neither had been broken. 

At last Archy thought he could hear her low mur- 
muring tones shape themselv«%into rhythm ; and, oh, 
the delicious sense of music they brought him — mean- 
ingless as they were to him. Meaningless, did I say? 
They whispered to Archy’s captivated imagination all 
that he had ever contrived to bind up into one word 
— heaven 1 

But after a while the tones became, unconsciously 
to the speaker, more loud and distinct ; and he was 
able to discover that she was repeating verses to her- 
self ; not as a mere lover of verses repeats them, but 


ARCHY LISTENS TO WHAT HE SHOULD NOT. 193 


as their creator, over and over again, as though test- 
ing every link of the structure, listening to every 
word to see if it gave forth the true ring of the Pacto- 
lian metal. Thus, what Archy could not make out in 
one recitation, he gradually learned from others that 
followed. It would be cruel to blame him for listen- 
ing; he did not know he was listening; his whole 
soul was engrossed by the sweet and novel pheno- 
menon before him. And so he listened and listened 
until he had drunk in, like some magic draught, the 
words of what appeared to be intended as 

A DIRGE. 

Earth, receive the flowers ye gave ; 

Kiss them, winds, until they die ; 

Write ye, spirits, o’er their grave, 

Here a Poet’s dear ones lie I 

Baisy, type of many hearts, 

Trodden most by those who love thee ; 

Striving, as the foot departs, 

Still to smile on all above thee. 

Harebells ringing, yet no wind, 

As some sprite, m puzzled doubt, 

Touching, playfully, to find, 

Shakes the timorous music out. 

Foxgloves, rich in summer days, 

Honeyed storehouse of the bee, 

Now his prison, now his prize, 

Let the bulky spoiler free. 

Wild-brier bloom, snatched not by foes, 

Sheathe thy infant- wounding thorn ! 

Bud to bud, and rose to rose, 

Beauty dying, beauty born. 

9 


194 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Hawthorn white, whose fragrant breath 
Echoes to the passer-by, 

All that Spring-time ever saith, 

All that Summer can reply. 

Earth, receive the flowers ye gave ; 

Kiss them, winds, until they die ; 

Write, ye spirits, o’er their grave, 

Here a Poet’s dear ones lie ! 

W as the fair writer pleased with her verses ? Arch y 
could scarcely say. But he could see she was rapt 
in them, believed in them, received them as so many 
angel visitants to her own spirit, come to commune 
with it, and bless it before they went away to wander 
among mankind. 

He could also see that there was now a sense of 
work accomplished, and a new sense of quite other 
work to be thought about, taking its place ; for there 
was an entire change in the gestures and movements 
of that frame, which more and more bewitched 
Archy’s eyes, as his stolen glances rested upon it thus 
unsuspected. The wandering curls were brought 
together and restrained in some fashion that Archy 
understood not, nor cared to inquire into — the result 
was enough ; and then the straw hat was put on, and 
little stray waifs were collected together, a handker- 
chief, and a note book (unused this morning — the 
memory for once had done all), and some wild 
flowers, and then there was just one loving, lingering 
look all round — the blue eyes passing over Archy’s 
resting-place and covert in their circuit, but showing 
no consciousness that they there saw other eyes 


ARCHY LISTENS TO WHAT HE SHOULD NOT. 195 


meeting them in silent adoration, and for the very 
sufficient reason that they did not see them ; and 
then there was a kind of hasty touching and smooth- 
ing of the dress, and a brushing off, as it were, of 
influences no longer to be indulged ; and a taking on 
of a quiet, demure, business-like gait, inexpressibly 
naive and touching to the sole observer, who knew as 
well as if the vision had spoken the words which 
were in the mind, “ Now, then, for the business of 
the day !” and she was gone, disappearing round the 
corner of the little platform of earth, but not out of 
hearing ; for Archy was listening again presently, as 
the voice broke forth, and this time into actual song, 
fresh and exhilarating as the carol of the birds ; but 
oh, how different in their effect to Archy, who lay 
down upon the grass, moveless, that he might hear 
to the very last possible instant the sounds that so 
ravished him. 

But he must waken from this strange day-dream. 
He must go to Mr. Dell. Was that, indeed, Miss 
Addersley ? If not, who could it be ? And then 
came the question, “ Shall I have to tell such a story 
before her?” If a clap of thunder had suddenly 
burst over his head, it would scarcely have wakened 
him more thoroughly than did that thought. If all 
the storms of heaven had been concentrated into one 
storm, and that had now opened its vials upon him, 
he could not have cowered in greater horror than 
he now felt, as he hurried along to seek shelter or 
destruction, by learning the worst or the best at 
once. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

When Winny returned from her favourite retreat 
to the Hall, cosily hugging, as it were, in her breast, 
her little secret (and I fancy, if she had known it was 
not a secret, poor Archy would have paid a penalty 
for his curiosity), she found Mr. Dell waiting and 
watching for her with a penetrating smile upon his 
face, that she understood, but did not choose to notice. 
So she was passing him in the porch, with her own 
side-raised glance and sweet smile, that said so much 
to him who knew their precious meaning, but he 
arrested her steps, and said — 

“ I can’t paint this morning. You make me get 
up too early. I can hardly realize the fact that I am 
up, and have had my breakfast, and that I ought to 
have done a full hour’s work. I don’t progress, do 
I ? Can you give a better account of yourself, eh? 
If so, I suppose I must submit to all this gross 
tyranny. But, come, the fruits ! the fruits ! I hunger 
and thirst for them this morning. My soul’s parched 
and dry. Come, Winny, no hypocrisy ; you are 
growing hardened now in scribbling, and can’t be 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


197 


allowed these little preliminary indulgences any 
longer. What have you written ?” 

“ Nothing.” ' 

“Nothing?” 

“ Look at my note-book. No, no, you shan’t 
look ; I forgot. But I give you my word of honour 
I have written nothing. 

“ What ! actually idled away the time ?” 

“ Oh, worse — far worse than that.” 

“ How ?” 

“ Making bad verses, that I had not the hardihood 
to commit to paper.” 

11 Oh, indeed, we’ll see to that. Come, begin.” 

And Winny prepared to consent— nay, it was 
sweet to find him thus eagerly seeking her consent. 
For she had grown to want her husband’s acceptance 
and enjoyment of all her poetic labours, not because 
of the pleasure it gave her, sweet as that was — but 
because she did not feel she could have done any- 
thing worth the doing, as regards other minds, if he 
did not approve. Other minds? Yes — Winny, like 
all true poets, loved poetry, first, for its own sake, and 
for all that it did in and for her own spirit ; but 
secondly, for the power it gave over others ; a power 
too exquisitely perfect in its nature, and too holy and 
far-reaching in its scope, to be lightly held or lightly 
used by any actual possessor. Winny dared not ask 
herself why she should have had such a power con- 
fided to her, and she trembled at the thought of a 
poet’s responsibility; but she resigned herself trust- 
ingly to the impulses that bore her on, and asked only 


198 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


that he, her husband, should whisper from time to 
time, “All’s well!” And so, Winny, taking his 
arm, and making him walk with her by her side, for 
she could not recite while he kept looking in her face, 
repeated to him somewhat tremulously, the verses 
that Archy had overheard. When she had finished, 
he said very quietly — 

“ Again, Winny and she repeated them again. 

“ Go on, darling. I can say no more. I don’t feel 
as though much longer I shall be a safe judge. My 
heart threatens henceforward to play tricks with my 
head. You must seek a worthier, perhaps a more 
public, tribunal.” 

“ No, no, not yet.” 

“No, not yet, I agree with that. The true poet 
feels, I fancy, that he is committing a kind of sacri- 
lege when he first makes common, and trusts to the 
rough handling of the world, that which to him has 
been so sacred ; when he hears the trampling of unre- 
specting feet on the pavement of his holy of holies. 
Nor can that feeling pass away until he understands 
that it was not for the solace of his own soul, or even 
for its individual elevation, that he received the vision 
and the faculty divine, but for others. To purify 
their vision, to raise their aspirations, to open in their 
hearts a sense of the infinite spiritual beauty and wealth 
that everywhere environs them — ah, when the poet 
begins to feel this, all egotistical impulses die ; he is 
no longer himself but humanity. And shall he 
refuse to speak humanity’s joys and sorrows — to lilt 
it into communion with God — to put on the robes — 


HUSBAND AND WIFE. 


199 


and to take up his stand beside the altar where he is 
to be henceforth the ministering spirit ? Somewhat 
too much of this, Winny, eh? Well, you see what I 
expect — mind I say expect , I don’t say achieve. You 
are at last beginning — beginning only still ; but then 
if you know how much that means — ” 

“ Oh, yes, I know,” sighed Winny softly. “ It 
means too much for me. I can’t understand how it 
was I first thought of anything so improbable, so 
wildly presumptuous.” 

“But, Winny,” interrupted Mr. Dell, “what sug- 
gested to you such a floral combination — and mostly 
spring-flowers again — after this gorgeous, glorious 
summer?” 

“Oh, I came upon a pretty passage in Burns’s 
biography, where he speaks of these very flowers as 
his especial favourites, and you know they are also 
mine, every one of them. But he treats them all as 
spring flowers. How can that be ? I never saw the 
foxglove or the harebell til] summer. And I don’t 
remember seeing a harebell early in the sum- 
mer.” 

“ Oho, my little ignoramus, you have made a grand 
mistake I” 

“ What ? nay, don’t frighten me — ” 

“Burns meant the wild hyacinth, you mean the 
blue-bell, the plant with only one or two thin, deli- 
cate, fragile, bell-like flowers on a stalk, and that a 
mere film or thread, though strong enough, under the 
hand of the divine artificer, to support those charming 
bells, and to enable them to ring out their music to 


200 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


every breeze. A child of the sunny heath, not the 
woody shade. That’s your flower, is it not ? 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, I saw that in a moment by your first line : 

‘ Harebells ringing, yet no wind ; 

As some sprite, in puzzled doubt, 

Touching, playfully, to find, 

Shakes the timorous music out.’ 

The whole spirit of the verse shows it is the blue- 
bell you mean, not the harebell.” 

“ Ah, but harebell it was to me, and must remain. 
I can’t lose the word. It must be right. Don’t you 
hear it sound?” 

“Well, but, Winny, consider — ” 

“I won’t, I won’t indeed, and that I mayn’t be 
induced to change my mind, good-bye till dinner;” 
and Winny flew along the hall and corridors, and 
disappeared. 










CHAPTER XVII. 

THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 

A few minutes after the parting of Mr. and Mrs. 
Dell at the porch, Archy came thither and rang the 
bell, which was almost immediately answered by 
Jean. Archy had become accustomed to this unfail- 
ing kindness and forethought in Jean, but he was 
never more grateful for it than now. They pressed 
each other’s hands in silence, and then she led him 
across the hall, and through the corridor, and so into r 
Mr. Dell’s studio, which had a separate door opening 
from the corridor. As they entered the half-darkened 
place, and Archy glanced around, he was about to 
speak, but Jean, with raised finger, pointed towards 
the other end of the old room beyond the screen, as 
though to indicate some one was there, and might 
overhear if they conversed. 

“ Mr. Dell bid me say he will come to you pre- ■' 
sently,” and with these words Jean noiselessly with- 
drew. Archy now tried once more to frame to 
himself the opening words of what he ought to say to 
Mr. Dell — tried to prepare himself to repress any 
emotion when he might again see the fair lady of the 
9 * 


202 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


mount, whom he expected to find in Miss Addersley 
— tried to solace himself with the comfort, “ Be firm, 
be patient, control your emotions, and all will soon 
be over, and well over !” But one operation would 
mix itself up with another, and so the whole became 
a mere tangled web of fact and fancy, hope and fear, 
doubt and resolution, and he saw he must trust to the 
influences of the moment to rouse and to extricate 
him, or make up his mind to be hopelessly lost for 
ever. 

Why was Mr. Dell so long ? How formal and cold 
everything seemed! Had he heard something, and 
was this only a first intimation of the change that 
Archy must expect in his behaviour? He rose, 
moved, and sat down on a different chair. Then he 
got up, and went to the wall, and looked upon the 
pictures, and, as he thought, considered them atten- 
tively, though he could not in the least recollect after- 
wards what were the subjects he had looked upon. 
He went round to see what work Mr. Dell had upon 
the easel, and there his wanderings of mind and body 
were instantaneously arrested, for there stood, though 
iji a kind of other but vivid life, the full-length figure 
of the lady who filled all his imagination, her face 
sparkling with a kind of spiritual mirthfulness quite 
different from the abstract, contemplative,, and yet 
penetrating expression that Archy had alone seen in 
his morning’s watch from the leafy covert. I know 
not by what secret instinct it was that Archy knew 
that the painter of that picture had painted it with 
his whole heart and soul, but he was sure of it in an 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


203 


instant, and a strange feeling arose — at once absurd 
and unpleasant — about Mr. Dell and Miss Addersley ; 
for he unconsciously persisted in identifying the latter 
with that sweet form — half child, half angel, yet all 
woman, he had gazed on. How long he might have 
continued thus perilously drinking in draught after 
draught from that — to him — unfailing fountain of 
loveliness, it would be hard to say, for an irresistible 
fascination possessed him, and seemed to whisper, as 
the eyes of the picture met his own, that it was to 
him that that naive, arch, exquisite creature was 
addressing herself ; that here and there she might do 
so blamelessly, and he- receive and enjoy and be 
blessed in such communion ; but he was soon checked 
and rudely shaken. 

“ Ah, Archy, old fellow !” cried the loud, good- 
humoured voice that he knew so well, and which 
sounded more cheerily than ever just now — “ Ah, 
Archy, is that really you? Well, I am delighted to 
see you. But what’s the matter — have you been ill?” 

“ Yes,” cried Archy, mastering a kind of internal 
spasm. 

“ Oh, well, never mind ; we’ll soon get you round 
again, since you didn’t die outright. Stop short of 
that, and there’s hope, you know. Come, let me 
introduce you to my wife. Oh, I see you have done 
that already. I thought, Archy, I had turned that 
picture to the wall. You are the first person who 
has seen it. Be silent — you understand — a little sur- 
prise for my wife’s next birth-day. But how wretch- 
edly ill you look.” And here Mr. Dell took Archy, 


204 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


with a sort of brotherly interest and curiosity, nearer 
to the window, where the light fell upon his easel, 
and gazed so earnestly in Archy’s face, that the poor 
fellow thought the investigation would never end, 
and he felt how terrible was the play of conflicting 
emotions that he could not conceal, how dread must 
be the confession he was making. 

“ Archy, is there anything wrong? Have you 
anything to tell me ?” asked Mr. Dell, after his pro- 
tracted examination. 

“Yes, yes — by and by — give me a little time.” 

“ Shall I fetch you anything — a glass of wine. The 
ladies are at the other end of the room — would you 
like to stay here a bit with me alone, or shall we go 
to them and wait for another opportunity, when you 
are quite recovered ?” 

“ I will go with you. Don’t mind this — this weak- 
ness ; ’twill pass over.” 

“ Come along then. Stay, I will just say you are 
here, and return for you.” He went beyond the 
screen, leaving Archy, who moved a little so that he 
could see the portrait, and then with quivering lips 
murmured — “ His wife ! Fool — fool that I was not to 
understand that sooner. Take your last look, and 
wake once more to learn the price of your idiot- 
dreams. How beautiful she is ! Does he know what 
God has given to him ? Oh, he must — he must !” 

lie heard voices now beyond the screen, and among 
them he distinguished that voice, though it, like the 
picture, was changed in expression from what he had 
previously known ; it was now ringing with happy 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


205 


laughter — the very tones that must belong to that 
deliciously naive mirthful place. But suddenly there 
was a change, and a murmuring under-current of 
remarks in a lower key. “Yes, doubtless Mr. Dell 
is saying something about me. Well, the time is 
come ; I am glad of it, for I grow very weary.” 

Mr. Dell here again appeared and said — 

“ Now then, Archy.” He advanced, and beheld 
through the long antique room, well known in old 
days to him, a confusing vision of extremely light 
windows, revealing a lawn and garden with richly- 
coloured flowers, the whole veiled by delicate lace 
curtains, and of two figures just within the windows, 
one tall, the other shorter, and of both these figures 
advancing and greeting him in tones of unaffected 
courtesy and kindliness, and of his uttering, or trying 
to utter, something, he knew not what, and of his 
being pushed, in the genial old way, by Mr. Dell into 
the low cozy arm chair, and then of a dead silence, as 
though the very pulses of the world had stopped, and 
all creation waited in blank mute expectancy the 
coming of a new revelation. 

But among true friends sympathy soon wins its way 
and removes a thousand apparent obstacles. By their 
continuous chat among themselves, diverging only 
now and then to him just sufficiently to make him 
feel he was neither forgotten nor intruded on ; by a 
thousand little nameless tones, looks, words, acts, 
Archy was drawn out of his overwrought fanciful 
terrors. Mr. Dell more than once set the ladies laugh- 
ing, and so obviously in spite of themselves (as it was 


206 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


rather at their expense, Archy understood), that 
Archy himself began first to sigh and then to smile, 
and to feel more calm and better able to confront the 
inevitable business before him. Grace tried hard to 
make him eat a little pigeon pie, for an early lunch 
was upon the table, but that he could not manage, and 
he gave up the attempt after one ineffectual essay. 
Mrs. Dell was more successful with a glass of cham- 
pagne; he drank it somewhat eagerly. His eyes 
brightened, his colour and courage returned. There 
are times, I must own, when a glass of wine will pro- 
duce magical effects. 

Mr. Dell, whom nothing escaped, saw, and spoke — • 

“Well, Archy, shall we have a stroll, or will you 
stay where you are ? Come, I hate beating about the 
bush. Grace tells me she knows more than I do, I 
suppose from Jean, and that she and my wife claim to 
share my interest in your welfare, and are, in fact, 
dying to know all about it, and they warn me that I 
am not to be sworn to secresy, and so on. What say 
you ? It is my wife and my cousin, you know ; but 
choose freely.” 

“ I can have no choice in such a matter,” replied 
Archy, in a tone of such painful constraint as to 
reveal but too plainly what was passing within ; 
“ although the story is a most sad and humiliating 
one to me, I can have no right to invest it with any 
additional difficulties for those who are kind enough 
to express a desire to hear it.” 

“ Come, then, sit down again, and make yourself at 
home. Stay, I will move your chair nearer the win- 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 207 


dow — tlie play of this crisp invigorating breeze, and 
the sight of this clear crystal atmosphere, just between 
the rain that has passed and the rain that I fear is 
coming, will do you good. See, there is the cham- 
pagne — don’t be afraid of it ; I know you are like me, 
a temperate man, unless you are greatly changed.” 

“No, I am the same — in that,” said Archy, with a 
forced smile, and thankful to Mr. Dell for his thought- 
ful kindness ; for in moving the chair he had so placed 
Archy that he would have no one’s eyes upon him. 
And the very feel — if I may use the word — of the 
quiet yet active friendliness at work about him 
shamed him out of his least reasonable fears, and ani- 
mated him in all his more justifiable hopes. Pre- 
sently he began, but stopped to say first — 

“ Jean knows only the worst of the story ; perhaps, 
if you see no objection — ” 

“Oh, certainly, I am glad you thought of it.” 
And Mr. Dell went away, and immediately returned 
with Jean, who would only sit just within the door. 

“ It is but right that I should warn you,” began 
Archy, “that my mother, for many and weighty 
reasons that Jean is acquainted with, suspends her 
own judgment in a matter deeply affecting my 
honour and future prospects in life, in order that she 
may first hear yours, and be guided to a great extent 
by it.” # 

“ She honours me greatly,” observed Mr. Dell ; 
“ more, I fear, than I deserve — but go on.” 

“ I must also warn you that while her very life 
probably hangs on your decision, she is herself too 


208 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


keen-sighted, too firm, and too courageous, to be 
content with anything like the partial verdict of a 
friend.” 

“ I own, Archy, you startle me; but still you give 
me faith. You who perceive so justly the duty of 
guarding me beforehand against prepossessions, and 
while showing me how much depends upon my 
opinion, cannot have anything very serious to 
reproach yourself with.” Mr. Dell said this cheerily ; 
but Grace saw that he looked grave immediately 
afterwards, and fixed his eyes on the ground with a 
somewhat marked watchfulness and concentration of 
thought. 

“ Spare me the recital of the folly that broke up 
my studies at the University, just when I had passed 
through them with honour, and was preparing to 
shape forth some active career in the wor]d. It was 
a folly only, and all its effects have passed away; 
though it so seriously unmanned me for the moment, 
that I think I should have wickedly struck at my 
own life, but that a new current was given to my 
thoughts by an acquaintance who knew my position 
and sufferings, and who advised me to join the army 
in the Crimea. 11 Shut out,” said he, “ by new occu- 
pations, and by the stir of that grandly tumultuous 
life, the recollections that are preying upon you.” 

“ ‘ But,’ I replied, ‘ I have no mo^ey, no friend 
that can obtain me a commission. Or if my mother’s 
influence with former friends of my father could help 
* me, it would take a long time, and be quite useless 
for present purposes.’ 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


209 


Go as a private then,’ he urged. 1 1 would 
Look here;’ — and he unfolded a newspaper, and 
showed me a list of sergeants and others who had just 
been raised from the ranks to be commissioned 
officers. 1 See, a new era is opening. It is certain 
that men like you would be welcomed. Do your 
duty, and you must rise, and rapidly.’ I listened, 
was convinced, enlisted that day, was sent to Chatham 
to join the depot of the regiment, and began at once 
to drill, and to learn as well and as quickly as I 
could a soldier’s business and duty. 

“ At first all went happily with me. The change 
did what I expected from it — removed the perilous 
stuff off my heart that was then weighing it down ; I 
recovered health and spirits; and was told, more 
than once, I shpuld make a smart soldier, and be 
promoted. I cannot say I liked my comrades, or 
that they liked me ; that was impossible ; there was 
too great a gulf between us in tastes, habits, views, 
in our past lives, and in our future prospects. But 
still we got on sufficiently well. I didn’t offend them 
by any seeming assumption of superiority, and they, 
in their rough way, acknowledged with a kind of 
tacit respect, I was a book-man, a scholar, and must 
be excused when I withdrew from the fun or tumult 
of the hour, or declined to join them in a visit to the 
canteen. I was then studying books on military 
science, and, %s I thought, began to see my way 
clearly and hopefully. 

11 There was a non-commissioned officer, a pay- 
serjeant, who sometimes exchanged a word with me, 


210 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and who, I fancied, often looked in my face with an 
odd expression, that I could not understand. He 
had been raised to that post, I heard, rather through 
his cunning in winning favour with the captain than 
on the ground of his skill in accounts ; though, no 
doubt, he managed pretty well. From looks and 
comments he passed to questions; and I at once 
perceived, in spite of the thin veil he tried to throw 
over his thoughts, by gossiping on a great variety 
and a great medley of subjects, that his curiosity was 
all directed to certain points, such as my knowledge 
of figures, of which he had heard somewhat from the 
other soldiers, who were impressed by the aspect of 
my books on mathematics — and my moral notions 
of men and things, his own views being obviously 
cynical and unflattering as to the* honesty of the 
world. He also wanted to know where I came from, 
and what I was aiming to do. I forgot to tell you 
that I changed my name.” 

“Why?” asked Mr. Dell suddenly, and, as Archy 
fancied, severely. 

“Be ause I had a sort of feeling all the while 
that I was not doing a very wise thing, and that 
I might have to leave the army in disappointment ; 
and therefore, for the present at least, I ought to 
spare my mother the pain of knowing about an 
experiment that was so problematical in its nature, 
and only make it known to her when* it had so far 
succeeded as I had fancied, that I might expect to go 
on. I knew that my mother’s feelings would be not 
so much against the army, in which my father had 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


211 


won high respect, but against my unprepared 
entrance into it, and the general unfitness, as she 
would deem, of my habits, character, and mind for 
such a pursuit. 

“ It is very painful,” continued Archy, after a pause, 
“ to have to add that I was also but too well aware of 
what would be the bitterness of my mother’s disap- 
pointment, at the loss of so many years, so much 
study, and so much money that she could ill spare, in 
fitting me for a professional life. Oh, believe me, I have 
never forgotten or forgiven myself for so disregarding 
or forgetting those considerations. It was — I know it 
— cruel and selfish to the last degree ; and I will not 
dwell on my excuses.” 

Mr. Dell wished to say something cheering, but 
could not manage it. He knew how poor Mrs. Cairn 
had straitened herself to win a fortune for her son ; 
and he felt it was selfish and cruel in Archy to have 
thrown all away by one rash act. But then he 
reflected further — Some love affair, I suppose. Men 
will do mad things in love ; and so young too ! 
Come. I will not j udge my old play-fellow unkindly. 
And then he said aloud — 

“ Come, Archy, proceed. Imagine all this only a 
surgical operation intended for your great relief after- 
wards. Ah, that’s right, Grace, give him another 
glass of wine. If he takes advantage of our incite- 
ments, and misbehaves in future, we’ll make him take 
the pledge. So, another glass now, if only in the 
triumphant consciousness of the securities we are 
going to take against future license.” 


212 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


And Grace, with a smile that recalled vividly to 
Archy what Jean had told him, and which now 
seemed to say, “ Don’t fear, I am not shaken !” came 
to him, and poured out another glass of champagne ; 
and Archy, as he drank it, returned one side glance 
to Winny, and saw she was looking on him with an 
air of inexpressible tenderness, her eyes humid with 
half-repressed tears; and she too seemed to say, “ Fear 
not : you are among friends.” Archy drank, and 
proceeded with his story. As to poor Jean, Archy 
thought not of her then. 

u One day I was suddenly sent for by the pay- 
sergeant. I found him very ill, with a half fever, and 
greatly troubled with his accounts, which were re- 
quired by the captain, who had told him to get help 
if he liked, but in any case let him have them 
promptly. He told me he had been vainly trying to 
balance them ; that every time he cast up a page it 
came to a different sum, and he begged me to go 
through them for him. I did so ; found many mis- 
takes, and some that looked like, to me, double entries 
of the same thing. But he said they were different. 
Various other little things I found that made me very 
uncomfortable, though at first I suspected they were 
merely the result of his imperfect knowledge and skill. 
But when I brought the whole to a balance, and 
showed that he had several pounds more in hand 
than he had supposed, he looked at me, as though I 
was in some way responsible for so unpleasant a 
result — muttered something I could not hear — and 
began himself to go over the whole again. 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


213 


“ At last he fetched a bottle from a cupboard, and 
said, with a ghastly sort of smile, ‘ Like whisky ? I 
can’t touch anything, you know, while the doctor’s 
got hold of me ; but come, you help yourself.’ I 
didn’t like to refuse ; for my thoughts just then were 
of a nature that seemed to make my refusal suspicious 
to myself. So I took a little, but determined secretly 
it should be very little. 

“ Then he grew very gracious, and spoke of my 
prospects. Would I like to be a corporal? I said, 
‘ Yes, very much.’ 

“ * Then you shall be. I can manage that easily.’ 
And then he reverted to the accounts. ‘ It’s clear 
I’m about seven pounds short ; but it’s equally clear 
[’ve spent the money, for, of course, I never mingle 
the regimental funds with my own. Let’s see ; how 
is it to be managed ?’ I saw the time was come to 
speak ; and so I said very plainly — 

“ ‘ There’s no management possible in the matter, 
sergeant, but this — you have expended the money, 
you say, and so you must try to reimburse. How ? 
Let’s go through the days and the items, one by one ; 
I shall be very glad if — But I saw now very plainly 
what was passing below that swelled, dark, inflamed 
face ; and he saw that I saw. But I did not flinch — ■ 
nor did he. Presently he said, with a laugh — such a 
brutal one I never before heard, I think, in all my 
life — 

“ ‘ Comrade, you must help me out of this, or — ’ 

“‘Or what?’ 

“ ‘ Blast you — I’ll make the place too hot to hold 


214 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


you. By God, I will. Come, no more nonsense; 
I’ve found you out.’ 

“ ‘ Found me out ! What do you mean by that ?’ 

“ ‘You are Martin Todd, are you? Oh, of course 
you are. And you had nothing to conceal under that 
alias, eh?’ Though I was startled, and seriously 
annoyed by the whole affair, which grew every mo- 
ment more unpleasant and dangerous, I was suffi- 
ciently on my guard to try if he knew my real name, 
so I said — 

“ ‘ Well, sergeant, I think you are a little mistaken ; 
but come, tell me what I am called, if Martin Todd is 
not my highest appellation, and then I will repay 
your frankness.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, you’re coming round, are you ? Of course I 
know your real name — ’ 

“ ‘ And that is — ? ’ Again I saw his gathering rage, 
as he perceived that I was incredulous ; and so I rose 
and wished him good morning, and was going away ? 
but be stopped me. And I confess I could not resist 
an inward shrinking as I marked the diabolical ma- 
lignity of his glance. 

“ ‘ Once again I give you your choice, pleasant and 
profitable quarters — you understand ? — and promotion 
— or — ’ 

‘“If I do understand you, which for your own 
sake, sergeant, I hope I do not, I can only say I am 
astonished alike at your impudence and your ras- 
cality ; and I warn you I shall go from hence to the 
captain, and — ’ 

“ ‘ Now don’tee don’ tee, there’s a good boy,’ said he, 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


215 


with an insufferable smile. ‘ And before you go, see 
how I’ve been playing with you. I told you I was 
seven pounds short, didn’t I ? I lied for the fun of 
the thing, see : ’ — And then he counted out on the 
table, with an elaborateness and ostentation of accu- 
racy which I perfectly understood, the exact sum that 
I had found by the books, after all my corrections, he 
ought to have in hand. 

“‘There, you see all's right. We won’t trouble 
each other with any more meetings. We don’t fit it, 
somehow ; I can’t drink to-day, and you, perhaps, 
won’t be inclined to drink when we next meet. The 
world’s big enough for us both, if only we keep apart. 
March, my boy, in time, that’s all. You’re a young 
fellow, and may escape for once. Good bye, take 
another glass? You won’t? That’s the way to the 
captain’s quarters, good-bye.’ He then opened the 
door for me, and fairly bowed me out. Words were 
useless, and as to acts, I knew if I touched him I 
should be myself a dead man. 

“ Of course I knew what he meant. He had guarded 
himself beforehand. He had found I was not willing 
to be an instrument. I was now to get out of his 
way ; in a word, to desert. And supposing I did do 
that, he would probably, in some way or other, ex- 
plain my sudden absence, after a visit to him, by 
some damning charge against me. But I was so 
indignant at the whole business, that I determined to 
laugh his threats to scorn, and remain doing my duty 
as a soldier — too well for him or any one to injure 


me. 


216 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Quite right, Archy, I honour your determination,” 
exclaimed Mr. Dell, with animation. 

“But when I considered about going to the cap- 
tain, which I felt strongly impelled to do, I was met 
at once by the reflection — Why, I have not a single 
fact to bring forward in proof of an almost incredible 
statement ! On the contrary, there are the accounts 
accurately balanced, and he has cunningly kept in 
hand, ready for just such a contingency, the amount 
of his intended frauds, so that on the surface of things 
nothing could be more satisfactory. He would smile 
as he showed his books and papers, and produce his 
actual cash ; and the captain would smile in return as 
he examined them, after hearing my statement. And 
I — yet what position should I stand in? why just the 
position the scoundrel had prepared to assign to me. 
Probably (reversing our actual positions) he would 
charge me with some fraudulent suggestion, founded 
on the errors he had made me look for and discover ; 
and I had already had proof how well he would act 
out his virtuous indignation, and I could guess with 
what triumphant success. 

“ I did not know what to do. I was paralysed be- 
tween the desire to act rightly and the desire not to 
compromise myself and my fortune unnecessarily or 
imprudently. I determined to wait until next morn- 
ing, at any rate. By that time my fate was deter- 
mined. Suddenly, I scarcely know how, a quarrel 
was fastened on me by one of the most ignorant of the 
soldiers, who shared my barrack-room : I was knocked 
down, had a black eye, and was much bruised and 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


217 


shaken. At parade my appearance was noticed by 
the captain, and he spoke to me for the first time, in 
so insulting a tone of reproof, that I forgot I was Mar- 
tin Todd and a private soldier, and I answered quickly 
and disrespectfully. Two minutes later I was a pri- 
soner, and being marched off to a prison cell. On my 
way, the sergeant met me, and stood fixedly staring till 
I had gone past, and then I heard his low brutal laugh. 
Half maddened, I took the first opportunity to send 
an urgent message to the captain, begging him to come 
to me. He did come, and the sergeant was with him. 
I begged him to see me alone ; with a quietly con- 
temptuous wave of the hand he bade the sergeant 
leave us — and then, though conscious I was engaged 
in a hopeless task, I told him word for word all that 
had passed between the sergeant and myself. When 
I had done he said simply — 

“ 4 Todd, I thought we were going to have in you a 
soldier who would be a credit to the regiment. That 
very sergeant did speak to me about you, but it was 
to advance your interests. Be silent, sir ; I know 
what you would say ; but it is you who must hear 
what I have to say. I see in you, then, in one word, 
a treacherous scoundrel, and I say to you, beware ! ’ 
Before I could again address him he had left the cell. 

“And then I was imprisoned for many weeks for 
my insolence, and when I came out the first man to 
meet me was the sergeant. Again he looked at me, 
and again sent after me the low brutal laugh that 
seemed at once to inflame and yet to curdle my blood. 
I dare not attempt to narrate the petty oppressions to 

19 


218 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


which I was thenceforward subjected. By degrees 
every man’s hand and heart seemed to rise against 
me. Things were whispered about that I had said, 
or done — now against this man, now against that — of 
which I knew no more than their dreadful conse- 
quences. Life became unendurable. Again and 
again was I imprisoned, but I guarded myself so care- 
fully, that the punishment never went, never could 
go, beyond imprisonment, .until one day, when I was 
sitting alone in the barrack room, a comrade came up 
rather hurriedly, passed me to go towards his own bed- 
head, pulled some clothes from under the pillow, and 
then suddenly exclaimed — 

“ ‘ I have been robbed. A few minutes ago I left 
a sovereign and some silver here, and now the sove- 
reign’s gone.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, look more carefully, and you’ll find it,’ I 
replied. ‘ I’ve seen no one go near your things, and 
I’ve not been out of the room since parade.’ Other 
soldiers came up and joined him as he angrily 
denounced the crime that had been perpetrated. 
The windows were open, and the discussion was very 
loud ; presently entered the sergeant. My heart fell 
as I saw him. Some new calamity was impending. 
He bustled about and came forward, asking what was 
the matter, and when he had learned, he asked from 
all present if they suspected any one. 

‘ “ You know, boys,’ said he, ‘this concerns the 
honour of the regiment ; let’s have no thieves among 
us, so speak out, no delicacies now. Do you suspect 
me ? For if you do — you’re welcome to search my 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


219 


pockets.* And the men laughed heartily at the joke, 
but no one answered his questions ; presently, how- 
ever, I saw that they were all looking towards me ; 
and then I heard my name. 

“ ‘ Todd ! No, no, boys, he’s an ungracious chick 
enough, I dare say, but I don’t think he’s a thief ; but 
I suppose I may examine your stores, Todd?’ And 
there came again towards me the loud, brutal, terribly 
meaning laugh. 

“ 1 Yes,’ I said, though the tongue clove to the roof 
of my mouth; for I felt instinctively certain that some 
game was being played out, in which he was to be the 
chief actor and I the sole victim. He came — exami ned 
my pockets — my spare clothes — my bedding — and 
then, turning, exclaimed — 

“ 1 No, no, boys, as I told you, we must look else- 
where for the thief.’ At that instant another soldier, 
one I liked the best of all the men in the troop, called 
out — 

‘“I don’t know how that may be, but here is a 
sovereign, slipped into an ingenious hiding-place too.’ 
We all looked — I say we, for I shared at that moment 
the common surprise. Yes, there was a sovereign, so 
placed between a chink of the wood-work that it 
might have escaped the discoverer’s eyes, but for the 
gleam of the edge. 

“ Denials, however scornful, from me were useless. 
Useless all appeals! Derisive cries were my only 
answer. Maddened by their senseless injustice, I 
forgot all precautions — all control ; two or three half 
tipsy men who had just stolen in alone took my side 


220 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


— caring neither for right nor wrong, but full primed 
for a row. Blows were exchanged, even arms were 
snatched at, and in the end several of us were assigned 
to the guard. 

“ I have only to add that I was tried, sentenced to 
be dismissed as a thief, with ignominy, from the regi- 
ment. They would have flogged me, I believe, but 
for the captain, who was instigated, I doubt not, by 
the sergeant to get me out of the regiment : if they 
had flogged me, my mind was made up to die under 
my assumed name, and give no sign. But this irre- 
mediable infamy was spared me ; I was dismissed as 
such men are dismissed. 

“ My mother, and Jean, to whom I had written 
some days before, begging them to procure my dis- 
charge, came in time to see the degrading sentence 
executed — when I got outside the barrack gate I 
heard a cry and saw my mother lying bleeding on the 
ground.” Archy was silent for a minute, and all 
respected his emotions, and were silent too. Then 
he continued, “ But she is saved for a time. If I am 
believed — if” — he spoke now very huskily, and 
stopped. A hand was laid on his shoulder. 

“ Archy, is this all ? A friend might hear more, 
and not give you up. You will trust me with the 
whole truth ?” 

“ On my soul, I have told you all — and with less 
of excuse perhaps for my conduct than I might urge, 
if—” 

“ Then, Archy, on my soul, I believe you ; and will 
make your mother believe you, too. What say you, 


THE STORY OF ARCHIBALD CAIRN. 


221 


ladies ? Innocent, or — ” Winny could bear no more; 
with streaming eyes she came to Archy and said — 
“ Oh be of good cheer, I am so glad you are with us.” 
And then she took his hand and kissed it, “ And this 
is your first experience in the world, is it ? ” she con- 
tinued, addressing him with tender sympathy. 

“ Well, come, Archy, to business. This matter 
must be looked to, and you must be righted (if that 
be possible) at my cost. Have you any occupation, 
any — ” income, he was about to add, but felt re- 
strained. 

“ No, no ; and I fear my mother needs my help 
greatly, but never mind that, you have comforted me, 
and I will work for her.” 

“Well, but how can we set our mind at rest for a 
bit ? ” inquired Mr. Dell, speaking, however, rather to 
himself than Archy. 

“ Couldn’t he, — and Mrs. Cairn too, — give me les- 
sons?” asked Winny in her usual straightforward, 
unhesitating way. 

“ Certainly, a good thought. Come then, Master 
Archy, we shall expect you daily at ten o’clock, say 
for a couple of hours, beginning to-morrow ; and we 
will arrange about Mrs. Cairn’s visits as soon as she 
is quite strong again. This will give us full oppor- 
tunity to talk over the other matter. Are you satis- 
fied ? ” Archy looked at him, but could neither 
speak nor move, not even his hand ; and Mr. Dell’s 
own eyes began to be blinded with moisture, as he 
saw how his old playmate was overborne by the great 
rushing, overwhelming sense of their kindness ; but 


222 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


when Archy, after some terrible efforts of resistance, 
fairly gave way, and dropped his hand and head upon 
the table, and was seen and heard to suffer what men 
only can suffer at such times, he sat down beside him, 
put his arm round him, and motioned the others to 
go away and leave them to themselves. And they 
all went. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


SYMPATHY AND COUNSEL. 

Among those unseen powers that influence human 
affairs so deeply and so unobtrusively, and that 
promise still larger issues in the future, when we shall 
have better fitted ourselves to appreciate and make 
use of them, there is one power — perhaps the great- 
est of them all — to which we are habitually very un- 
grateful. It is that which touches the heart of the 
poet, and lo ! he understands at once all hearts ; it is 
that which draws your Howards into the gloomiest 
dungeon-depths, and enables them to revive hope 
under the very ribs of despair — your Florence Night- 
ingales to exchange the luxurious drawing-room for 
the fetid and ghastly hospital — your city missionaries 
to carry a gleam of spirit-light and purity into the 
filthiest and darkest of the homes of the poor ; it is 
that, too, which in private life guides the wandering 
footsteps of love ; deprives business of its harsher 
tones and tendencies ; teaches the legislator that 
durable human laws can only be based on permanent 
natural ones ; reminds the sovereign, in tones he must 
hear, that the brightest jewel in his crown, Mercy, 


224 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


sheds a double radiance — namely on his own soul, 
and on the soul of the suppliant who is listened to. 

Yet we raise no statues to this power. We do not 
even, with the touching and instinctive faith and the 
blind ignorance of the Athenians, publicly acknow- 
ledge our “ Unknown God.” On the contrary, we 
dislike even to mention its name. We carefully 
guard ourselves in a thousand ways against its 
approaches, lest it might lead us away we know not 
whither. We look upon a man as doomed who 
allows it openly to keep him company on the mart, 
in the campaign, in the chambers of the diplomatist, 
or in the halls of parliament. We have even a special 
appellation for it when we wish to thrust it back into 
its usual state of forced oblivion and inefficiency ; we 
call it then sentiment; and we deride — and do our 
best socially to paralyse — all those who speak in its 
behalf, as “ sentimental.” But the true name of this 
power is Sympathy, and its real mission is, to bind 
together the entire family of man, heedless of men’s 
absurd or selfish distinctions, and compelling modifi- 
cations of their prudent or more necessary ones. In 
a word, sympathy is with us just that one touch of 
nature that makes the whole world kin, and at present 
it is no more. But the time must come when it will 
exercise a wider sway, as inferior instincts are mas- 
tered, material difficulties removed, nobler motives 
accepted for the daily guidance of life. 

And it was that power which had now, step by 
step, saved Archibald Cairn in the most critical period 
of his existence. First, through the sight of his 


SYMPATHY AND COUNSEL. 


225 


mother, senseless on the ground, at the barrack gate : 
a spectacle that dispersed in an instant the terrible 
and dangerous clouds that overhung his wandering 
and chaotic mind ; and made him think only of her, 
when, a moment before, it would have seemed impos- 
sible that any earthly event could have drawn him 
out of himself. Then, with the new terror of her 
danger, and remorse for its cause, came also the sense 
of Jean’s unchangeable devotion to his mother and to 
himself; and that was indeed sweet. And as this 
terror was gradually allayed, and as he perceived the 
reviving love of his mother, there needed but one 
thing more to secure all these precious acquisitions, 
and that one thing came in Mr. Dell’s manly friend- 
ship. Archy felt all this, and a thousand times more 
than this, surging through his mind, as he sat at Mr. 
Dell’s table with his head buried in his hands ; no 
longer able to control the tenderer and more sympa- 
thetic emotions of his nature, now that he had, at last, 
manfully fought his way through the hideous revela- 
tion, and achieved all he had hoped by it — the honest, 
cordial belief of his hearers in the truth of his 
story. 

Mr. Dell scarcely spoke to him for a few minutes, 
content to know that Archy would understand by the 
old boyish circling grasp of the arm, all that the one 
could possibly have desired to say, or the other to 
hear. He knew this passionate violence would soon 
exhaust itself. He knew it was but the natural ter- 
mination of a long and dreadful period of secret suffer- 
ing and perpetual fear ; and all his old love for Archy 
10 * 


226 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


revived as lie found the young man needing so much 
sympathy, and so well able to profit by it. 

And Archy was indeed profiting by it. He felt 
how idle it would be to attempt to speak of what he 
felt ; or of the relief he had experienced ; or of the 
overwhelming, almost painful, sense of gratitude, that 
had taken the place of his former trouble (painful be- 
cause he felt so helpless, and unable even to dream of 
a mode of repayment), but, at ail events, he would 
do what was permitted to him. 

And this is what he did. He came to a silent reso- 
lution with himself that no chance or temptation 
should ever again surprise him, as he had already too 
often been surprised, into acts of indiscretion, which 
had generally been the forerunners of a whole series 
of acts of more than indiscretion. Yes, he made that 
resolution now as men do make all such resolves 
when they really mean to keep them, that is, with a 
concentrated energy of purpose, sufficient to brush 
aside all obstacles, a clear-sightedness as to facts and 
means, and a calculated willingness to endure, if ne- 
cessary, future suffering, in expiation of past offences. 

And as there is no free-masonry that equals sym- 
pathy in its art of making men apprehend each other’s 
meaning without words, Mr. Dell soon perceived what 
Archy was about, though scarcely a sentence on the 
subject passed betwb-ct them. There was, however, 
a cordial clinging grasp of the hands in mutual recog- 
nition, and all was said, and done, and over. 

But after that they talked long and earnestly about 
the practical aspect of the case, trying to discover 


SYMPATHY AND COUNSEL. 


227 


what would be tbe best mode of procedure in the 
effort to re-establish Archy’s character. But nothing 
promising was elicited. 

“ Well, Archy,” said Mr. Dell, during a pause, “ I 
am glad you did change your name. If we fail, and 
are obliged finally to give up the attempt, it is con- 
solatory to remember that, in all probability, you will 
never, in your new life and occupation, meet with 
any one who knew Martin Todd, or who, at all events, 
can now recognise him in Archibald Cairn.” 

“ Yes, I feel that.” 

“ And if any unlucky mishap does occur you will 
have me to fall back upon. It shall go hard if I 
cannot prevent any serious injury to you. But now, 
let us recapitulate. This, apparently, is all that at 
present comes from our cogitations : — I must write to 
Payne Croft, give him full particulars, and leave the 
case in his hands. I may tell you he is a rising bar- 
rister, and altogether a very promising fellow. He 
would like, I fancy, to do me a good turn — so here is 
a chance for him. He may possibly know some acute 
attorney in Chatham who can watch this friend of 
yours — this pay-sergeant. By the bye, what is his 
name?” 

“ Dunk — Sergeant Matthew Dunk.” 

u Write it down for me. Also the name of the 
man who discovered the sovereign, and whom, you 
say, you rather like ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Probably, then, he did really discover the money, 
just as he appeared to do ?” 


228 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ I feel sure of it.” 

“ And the doctor who attended your mother, and 
who was so intelligent and kind, you had better men- 
tion him also. He may be serviceable, if only to 
express his knowledge of your mother’s character and 
high principle, as exhibited in her conduct to you, 
and his own favourable" opinion, personally, as to 
yourself.” 

“ Yes, there it is — Dr. Simpson.” 

“ Ye-ry well. How then, lastly, can you give any, 
the least idea, speaking not of what is -probable, for 
the whole affair is too difficult to talk of probabilities, 
but of what is possibly the actual truth of the matter. 
There can be no doubt, I take it, that the Sergeant 
knew of the previous hiding-place of the money ?” 

“ I have not the remotest doubt of it.” 

“Can he have been in the barrack-room, alone, 
that morning, previously ?” 

“ I think not. I may say, I am sure not ; for when I 
went back an hour or so after morning parade, I found 
a man there who had returned direct from the parade, 
and who told me, when I questioned him after the 
discovery, that no one but he had been in the room 
till I came.” 

“ And was the Sergeant himself on the parade at 
the time?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That’s decisive, then, so far. But now, candidly, 
how do you think the sovereign could have been 
placed where it was found ?” 

“By the Sergeant’s own hands, during the con- 


SYMPATHY AND COUNSEL. 


229 


fusion that prevailed in the room on the first disco- 
very of the theft. I see no other possible explana- 
tion.” 

“And — remembering the character and progress 
of the scene — should you say that that was possible ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Probably, then, you are right. But this — if true 
— removes only half our difficulty ; nay, scarcely half. 
How could the coin have been abstracted from the 
pocket of the owner ?” 

“ Perhaps it was not the same coin.” 

“ Ha ! true ; we must not forget that possibility. 
You think, perhaps, that the man lost his money in 
some other way, and that his loss was taken advan 
tage of by the. Sergeant for his own amiable pur- 
poses?” 

“ I know not what to think. The man was a blun- 
dering, but not dishonest, fellow.” 

“ Hot a confederate, then ?” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ I think you are right. The Sergeant, notwith- 
standing the boldness of his game with you, was not 
fool enough to risk the possibility of charges from 
different quarters being brought against him nearly at 
the same time. If so, we must confine our attention 
to that theory which, while perfectly including the 
known facts, proceeds upon the hypothesis that the 
Sergeant himself is the only villain in the affair, 
though there may still be others innocently engaged 
in it.” 

“Yes.” 


280 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ And through those others, perhaps, we may dis- 
cover the clue ?” 

“Perhaps — yes, I hope so. My mother could, I 
doubt not, get one or two powerful military friends 
to interfere, but — ” 

“ But only by exposing your true name ! And I 
don’t think we want such help ; not just yet, at all 
events. To discover the truth is our object — in other 
words, to unkennel this rascally fox ; and for such a 
purpose the keen nose of some shrewd attorney will 
be worth more than all the power and authority of 
the commander-in-chief. And now, Archy, as a friend 
I advise you to let the matter rest. Banish it as far 
as possible from your thoughts. Everything that can 
be done shall be done ; let that knowledge content 
you. Feel that you are at home again. We’ll track 
the old walks together. Nay, I don’t see why we 
shouldn’t go off for a day or two now and then with 
knapsacks on our backs, and forget, for a few hours, 
that there are such things in the world as duties or 
responsibilities. Eh ! old fellow ? I shall have out 
the fishing tackle, and — come, to begin, let George 
bring us the horses, and we’ll have a scamper over 
the downs away to the very sea. We may get back 
to dinner. What say you?” And then, as if the 
cheery words alone might not have been sufficient, 
Mr. Dell let his hand fall good-humouredly, but still 
with a rousing slap, on the shoulders of the still half- 
dreaming, half-troubled Archy ; who started, straight- 
ened himself, looked and laughed — the old frank, 
hearty laugh — how well Mr. Dell knew it ! and before 


SYMPATHY AND COUNSEL. 


231 


many minutes they were on horseback, and hurrying 
off, and — somewhat, it must be confessed, to the ladies’ 
surprise — they heard Archy’s laugh not the least loud 
among the mirthful peals that accompanied the de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

TEACHER AND PUPIL. 

“ The Shadow in the House 1” where is it ? Surely 
not in Bletchworth. There, if anywhere in this 
chequered world, eternal sunshine appears to have 
settled. Mr. Dell is profoundly happy in his wife ; is 
surrounded with all the material conditions of social 
enjoyment and consideration ; is advancing in his 
amateur art just enough to satisfy his conscience that 
he cannot be called an idle man, and to give him a 
kind of confidence that he is able to reciprocate his 
wife’s intellectual tastes and pursuits in a manner not 
unworthy of her, or damaging to his own self-respect. 
His cup is full, and running over : but he is so silently 
grateful for it all that he does not — assuredly — tempt 
fortune to try any experiments upon him by his own 
vanity, or display, or self-engrossment. 

And Winny, though growing less demonstrative 
since the first chill experienced on her entrance into 
society, is no less happy than her husband, while far 
more earnestly engaged in mental pursuits. No young 
collegian, determined to carry off all the highest 
“honours.” could study more assiduously than she 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


233 


does now ; and this, not simply for the better fulfil- 
ment of the duties of her position, but because she 
sees, with ever increasing interest (and sometimes with 
sudden alarm), how her own nature and aims require 
educational development. She is very silent, though, 
about the matter ; talks little about it even to Grace, 
and not at all to Mr. Dell ; but battles her way along 
with unfailing courage — often driven back for a 
moment by the utter failure of her weary, confused 
brain to comprehend?* the vast maze of knowledge it 
has entered upon, and which it seeks to master by one 
grand heroic effort, rather than by slow, patient, 
tedious detail, but always returning to the attack with 
new strength, and always conquering the particular 
difficulty at last. 

She works too hard, doubtless ; but is still very 
happy. And when, let me ask, did hard alone, I 
mean, by its own intrinsic nature — when freed from 
other difficulties — ever prevent happiness ? I think 
never. I am sure it has often given people the first 
taste of enjoyment they have known for many years ; 
people who were miserable, until, by some accident, 
they discovered the virtue of hard work. And so, in 
spite of her* being overtasked by her own energies 
and desires, Mrs. Dell is happy ; but then, you per- 
ceive, the work is not exacted from her ; and in doing 
it she believes she will add to her husband’s happi- 
ness, while she is quite sure it will deepen, strengthen, 
and improve her own being. Yes, she, like her hus- 
band, is very happy. 

And Grace—? Well even Grace Addersley ap. 


234 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


pears, to casual observers, to draw a constant pleasure 
from the sight of all this married bliss. One might 
have supposed that, under the circumstances, she 
would have preferred simply to know that her own 
intended husband was happy with another woman, 
without caring to see — or to investigate daily and 
hourly the proofs ; and that if a gentle shadow did 
throw its soft tender colouring over her heart, she 
would not need to drive it away, or deny it, but might 
let it die out at its own time. But Grace is a peculiar 
woman. She does not go away ; and yet no shadow 
is ever seen to envelope her in gloom. Perhaps she 
thinks it may do her good to study so fair an aspect 
of domestic life, and to nerve herself the while against 
natural womanly slirinkings and weaknesses, in order, 
determinedly, to make others forget (and so, possibly, 
herself), that she had ever nourished thoughts that 
were in their nature seriously antagonistic to the ruling 
state of things. 

There is then no shadow, apparently, over Grace’s 
heart now ; neither Mr. nor Mrs. Dell ever meet her 
during the day, in the corridor or on the lawn, in the 
studio, the drawing-room, or at meals, but they see 
the quick smile light up the face, and they hear the 
pleasant musical-voiced remark or inquiry rise to the 
lips, always having some immediate relation to the 
thoughts, comforts, or interests of the one who is 
addressed. And I forgot' to say how much this 
behaviour of Grace’s adds to the happiness of the 
husband and wife, and how warmly it makes them 
both feel towards her. Certainly it would be a shock 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


285 


to them both now were she to talk of leaving Bletch- 
worth. 

That Grace should be thus at ease and contented, 
is the more satisfactory, since she has not, as they 
have, any noticeable occupation. Mrs. Dell is her 
own house-manager; though her only reason for not 
accepting Grace’s frequently proffered services is, that 
she thinks she ought to do what is necessary to be 
done herself ; and that, with her habits and tempta- 
tions, if she once gave way on such a point, she would 
find the duties unnaturally irksome if she were ever 
again compelled to resume them. And of course, she 
thinks to herself, Grace will marry some day — per- 
haps soon. She has often wondered why this had 
not happened before. And sometimes she has specu- 
lated — -just for an instant or two — on the theme — 
“ Why did not Mr. Dell’s fancy go that way ?” But 
she was herself too well satisfied with the fact, and its 
consequences personally, to trouble herself to answer 
such hypothetical questions. 

Yet though thus unoccupied, it is evident to any 
one who may happen to look steadily into Grace’s 
features and eye, that there is no lack of occupation 
felt. If hers is not exactly a well-furnished mind, it 
is certainly one of a strong, self-sustaining character — 
with large resources of its own, and with extensive 
tracts of thought all about it, over which it may range 
and find food. One occupation Mrs. Dell has given 
to her, and Grace makes much of it. During the two 
hours’ instruction that Winny daily receives from Mr. 
Cairn, Grace is understood to be always present. 


230 


THE SHADOW IN' THE HOUSE. 


This understanding arose from Winny’s own sugges- 
tion, after the first meeting with Archy, and when the 
first powerful impressions of his story had passed. 
She was then rather startled as she reflected that she 
had invited herself to daily meeting, for a couple of 
hours, with a young man whom she had never before 
seen. She could not help wishing she had waited for 
her husband to be the first to make such a proposition. 
However, it was done — she had committed herself, 
and she had too much spirit to retract to the injury 
of Archy’s prospects, except for weightier reasons 
than any that now presented themselves. Once, 
though she wondered whether Mr. Dell could have 
been at all surprised at her sudden — and, as she feared, 
half-inconsiderate act ? But no ; his face and manner 
had never changed for a moment. If he had thought 
of it at all, probably, it was simply to enjoy her 
unconventional sympathy and promptitude. But 
however that might be, Winny said quietly the next 
morning to Grace, as Archy was seen coming through 
the chestnut avenue — 

“ I think, dear, it might be as well for you to be 
present during these lessons, though we need not 
appear to have arranged anything of the kind for- 
mally.” 

“Yes, dear, I understand. And I think you are 
quite right.” 

“ Why, Grace, to own the truth,” and Winny 
slightly blushed as she spoke, “I was not exactly 
thinking of myself, or of what I was about yesterday, 
when I proposed — ” 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


237 


“ Oh, do, but I understood you, and should myself 
have suggested something of the kind if you had not. 
I’ll be here when he comes and goes, and slip in and 
out between whiles, just as I might be doing were he 
not here.” 

“ Thank you,” said Winny, though with a sort of 
consciousness, after all, that she was making much 
ado about nothing. 

And so the lessoijs began. 

And with them, .opened a new phase in the career 
of Archibald Cairn. At first he was shy, sensitive, 
and taciturn ; and it was with difficulty he could even 
fairly acquit himself of the duty he had undertaken ; 
and which, after a brief talk with the new pupiJ, it 
was determined should open with the reading of 
English history, and with the learning of the French 
language. But by degrees he gained confidence, as 
he saw the sweet, simple ingenuousness of soul that so 
often appealed to him when he least expected it ; run- 
ning aside from the formal course of the^ lesson to ask 
an explanation of this difficulty, or the meaning of 
that fact ; or more noticeable still, — to compel him to 
grapple principles and problems he had never before 
noticed, much less mastered, but which could not 
escape her fresh eye, and searching mind. He was 
thus speedily drawn out of himself ; and begun, as all 
do under such a process, instantly to improve. He 
answered her when he could, and confessed his state 
frankly when he could not ; and if there had not been 
a common natural sympathy between them till that 
moment, it would have existed then ; so dearly did 


238 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


she — the child of nature — love to hear such a confes- 
sion from a man who seemed to her to know so much. 
It helped, at once, to set her personally at ease ; while 
it satisfied her poet-faith in the wisdom as well as the 
beauty of all modesty in knowledge. 

When once the teacher and the pupil had come to 
a good understanding, there remained little of diffi- 
culty for the man and the woman to arrive at a like 
result. I have shown what Archy had thought and 
felt about Mrs. Dell, on his first sight of her, from the 
height of Norman Mount. And although all subse- 
quent thoughts and feelings were modified by the dis- 
covery — for the moment, an exquisitely painful one — 
that she was married — married to his own friend, Mr. 
Dell, yet the modification did not prevent a certain 
dangerous pleasure from being indulged in, that of 
dwelling, in imagination, on the beauty of soul of the 
young wife. There could be no harm in that, he 
thought. On the contrarj^, there ought to be much 
good. He wanted to mould himself by the aid of 
.some such spiritual standard. And to do Archy full 
justice, let me add that not the least taint of personal 
emotion, or desire, that he could recognise or control, 
mingled with his admiration of Mrs. Dell. He would, 
for instance, have been only too glad, if by any pos- 
sible evolution of circumstance it could have been 
discovered that he and Winny were brother and sis- 
ter, and that his relations of affection and gratitude 
with Mr. Dell might have been made permanently 
secure and sacred by such a tie. 

But out of this very purity of thought and inten- 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


239 


tion arose a new danger, that Archy was not philoso- 
pher enough to have anticipated. He felt so safe, — 
and he desired so earnestly to improve himself, and 
become worthy of the friendship of two such persons 
as Mr. and Mrs. Dell, — and he saw (he thought) so 
clearly, that it was mainly through the latter that he 
would achieve this object, that he lost by degrees, all 
instinctive sense of the danger of his position ; and 
as his shyness and taciturnity passed away, he aban- 
doned himself, at every opportunity, to the full enjoy- 
ment of the intercourse with his fair scholar, and 
then exhibited in their most attractive aspect, all those 
qualities of mind and character, that had made him a 
universal favourite among his companions at the Uni- 
versity ; and which now produced a corresponding 
effect on the young, earnest, and sympathetic nature 
of Mrs. Dell. 

He soon perceived her regard for him, and with 
the perception came soberer thoughts. And then, 
always quick to run in the new direction that circum- 
stances might happen to indicate, he began to fancy 
he had done wrong, was committing himself further 
and further on in a hopeless and worse than hopeless 
career ; and then the sense of Mr. Dell’s generous 
kindness rushed upon him with irresistible force ; and 
he was almost ready to leave Bletchworth at once, 
with explanation, and so guard against the possibility 
of any new and utterly unpardonable offence against 
his own conscience, — against his every instinct of 
right and wrong ! 

But although Archy did right to blame himself for 


240 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


not having kept a more even balance of mind, he 
wronged himself in his self-inculpations. Never for 
a single instant had one dishonouring thought, con- 
sciously, risen in his mind, without being instantly 
put down, or banished; but he persisted, as certain 
weak people are apt to do, in not seeing danger — 
not until the signs of its existence could no longer be 
gainsaid. Then he went to an opposite extreme, and 
frightened himself unnecessarily, without at all right- 
ing himself in the process. And thus he remained 
in a state of perpetual oscillation, — ‘to his own great 
discomfort, — between snatches of enjoyment that he 
felt he had no right to,' and useless wishes to put an 
end to them that he had not decision to carry into 
effect. 

Then, as days and weeks passed on, a marked 
change exhibited itself in his behaviour and his face, 
and in the whole tone and temper of his conversa- 
tion. 

Mr. Dell, who had at first greatly enjoyed his com- 
panionship, began to complain to his wife, at first 
laughingly, then with annoyance, then almost with 
concern, that Archy was losing his tongue, his spirit, 
almost his good humour. What could be the matter 
with him ? They both agreed it might be the remem- 
brance of the cruel humiliation he had undergone ; 
aided, possibly, by a reaction, such as these eager 
fluctuating temperaments are subject to, from the 
great relief and gratification experienced on his first 
coming to Bletchworth. 

Mr. Dell made several attempts to learn if there 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


241 


was no special trouble to account for Arehy’s conduct, 
but could discover none ; and also to induce bim to 
speak frankly as to what was the matter with him, 
but with no better effect. Archy persisted that there 
was nothing the matter. He was melancholy, he 
acknowledged ; and that was all he could say. “ If 
he did not do his duty properly to Mrs. Dell — ” 

“ Come, come, Archy !” exclaimed Mr. Dell. “ If 
you won’t speak, not even to a friend, don’t at least 
punish him for wishing that you would. You have 
effectually silenced me now.” 

Archy seemed even more hurt at this than Mr. 
Dell — but he allowed the conversation to drop : appa- 
rently not sorry that Mr. Dell was effectually silenced. 
Mr. Dell wondered more than ever, but soon grew 
tired of that unprofitable process ; and went back to 
his studio, awaiting the time when this slight and 
inexplicable shadow should melt away in the light 
of common sense, and under a healthier atmosphere 
of mind. 

But as Archy and Mr. Dell began to draw apart, 
Archy and Grace seemed to be more attached to each 
other. To him her smile became fairer, her voice 
more musically pitched, than to any one else. Yet 
Archy never for a moment attributed this pleasant 
phenomenon to a wrong cause, if he did not — could not 
— dare to connect them with any possible right one. 
He felt, while with her, there was a kind of unex- 
pressed, yet perfectly intelligible interchange of 
sympathy, as though she half-divmed what was 
passing in his heart ; and pitied him, and esteemed 
11 


242 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


him the more for his determinedly honourable pur- 
pose of making himself as miserable as he could. Yet 
he treated the supposition as only one of his day- 
dreams, which he would have been very sorry to find 
realized. But one morning, when his eyes were fixed 
upon Mrs. Dell, and were following her lingeringly, 
with a dreamy abstract look, he sighed, as he with- 
drew his gaze ; and then he felt the blood rush most 
irritatingly to his cheek as he saw that he had been 
himself just as closely watched by Miss Addersley • 
and that, in a word, she knew as well as he did what 
had been passing in his thoughts. He would have 
said or done something — no matter how absurd — to 
deny the suggestions of her glance, but he dared not ; 
he knew instinctively he was before an intellect more 
piercing than his own, and to him utterly impenetrable 
— -a will that was not likely to fail in coping with his 
will, which unfortunately, had yet only distinguished 
itself by its weakness at one time, and by its fitful 
strength at another. Here was a new difficulty for 
him — a new toil clinging about him. 

But if Grace had made this difficulty, she certainly 
did her best to accompany it with all possible com- 
pensations. If he ever felt the least wish to be alone 
with Mrs. Dell, she seemed to divine his wish, and to 
disappear. If, when they were all three together, the 
tone of conversation flagged, as it was very natural it 
should while Archy thus laboured with his perilous 
secret, she was sure to re-animate it, and to make him 
practically feel as though he had been battling with 
shadows, and needed only to open his eyes, take 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


243 


things as they might come, and be content : all then 
would be well. If there were any little personal 
service that Mrs. Dell happened to need, such as the 
fetching of a glass of water to refresh her jaded spirits, 
Grace, while herself almost ostentatiously ministering 
tO' the young wife’s wants, somehow managed to find 
Archy in the way, as she approached; and allowed 
him to hand the water to the fair hand that was held 
out to receive it ; and if Grace did not understand the 
thrill with which Archy’s hand touched Winny’s, he 
did : — only too well. In fine, Archy was rolling 
down a precipice at a portentous rate ; but the sward 
was so thickly covered with flowers, and the per- 
fumes that his very descent exhaled from them 
in the crush were so deliciously sweet, that he could 
only — roll on. 

Grace saw and felt she had done right to wait. 
One half her wishes were accomplished ; how now as 
to the other moiety ? What about Mrs. Dell ? 

One morning, about a month after the beginning of 
the lessons, Archy thought he noticed in Mrs. Dell a 
change. Her manner was at intervals constrained, 
and then again more than ordinarily tender and 
sweet. What thoughts ran through the young 
teacher’s mind I will not undertake to say ; but 
his senses grew tumultuous, his eye and intellect alike 
confused, his teachings fruitless, his explanations 
utterly inexplicable. Mrs. Dell saw, with a heighten- 
ing colour and passing shade of gravity, but otherwise 
took no notice ; and went on with the lessons just as 
though nothing were amiss. Grace came in on one 


244 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


of her usual flying visits, noticed the increased suf- 
fusion on the cheek, and managed by the steadiness 
of her own gaze, to give it a deeper tinge. And then, 
with an inexpressibly sweet tone and smile to Mrs. Dell, 
the mere overflow of which were sufficient for Archy 
also, she went out again. And so the lessons passed. 

Archy felt instinctively that this morning would 
not end as other mornings had ended, although at the 
close of the two hours, he rose, mechanically as 
usual, to put out his hand to wish Mrs. Dell good- 
morning; but he was stopped by her saying in a 
somewhat embarrassed voice : 

“ Stay, if you please, a few minutes longer.” 

He re-seated himself, feeling his heart beat fast, una- 
ble to guess what could be coming, yet certain there 
was something about to be said that would be of no 
ordinary moment to him. 

“ Archy ! — may I call you so? ” said Mrs. Dell, in 
a sweet but timid tone. 

“Archy, I want to ask you one or two questions, 
that I dare say will surprise you, but you know my 
respect, affection for you.” 

“ Affection ! ” Did Archy hear correctly ? No 
doubt, but if so, he by no means felt prompted to 
respond, as one might have supposed he would respond 
to such a word from Mrs. Dell. What was it? — 
something in the tone, or the manner, or the look that 
restrained him ? He could not tell ; but he was 
effectually restrained. Again he bowed, as the only 
answer he felt capable of giving. 

“ Archy, why have you been so changed of late ? 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


245 


— changed to my husband especially ? Why are you 
so unhappy? Why do you persistently refuse to 
acknowledge, what every one who cares about you 
can see so plainly, that you are ill at ease — that you 
do not, cannot rest ? ” 

Tints and hues of all kinds appeared and died out, 
and then again re-appeared on the face of the listener, 
during this cross-questioning. He was not prepared 
for it: — He could have quarrelled with Mr. Dell, if 
necessary, in order to make him be silent, but there 
was no such solution practicable here. 

“You do not answer me? Come, Archy, I want 
to be your confessor, and see if I cannot disperse this 
gloom from your brow. But you must be honest and 
frank. Still silent. Must I then — a woman too — lead 
you on ? Archy , I know your secret A 

Archy, thunderstruck, looked up. She sat — -just 
opposite him, all distinct colour banished from her 
cheek, yet with a certain vivid animation shining 
through it, her blue eyes filling with tears, and an 
expression in them, in her countenance, and in her ges- 
tures, that showed she was neither angry, nor alarmed, 
but very — very sad for his sake. 

Archy tried to speak — but could not — looked at her 
again, and saw the same almost divine pity shining 
forth, and then — knowing not what he did — he threw 
himself at her feet, and cried out, as he snatched her 
hand — 

“1 do — God knows — I do, indeed, love you! Oh, 
pity me ! ” 

In an instant Mrs. Dell sprang to her feet, and her 


246 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


whole aspect underwent an entire revolution. Her eyes 
almost blazed down, in scathing anger and contempt, 
upon Archy ; her hand hurriedly withdrawn from his 
grasp, was raised warningly — almost menacingly; a 
burning spot appeared on her cheek, and when she 
spoke, it was in loud, deeply-breathed, measured words : 

“ Mr. Cairn, if I forgive this, it is for my husband’s 
sake. Go — we are strangers henceforth.” 

She turned, not even again looking upon Archy as 
he cowered before her, and went right past him to the 
door, but she paused there, as she touched the handle, 
hesitated, and then Archy faintly murmured, in a 
voice broken with anguish — 

“ You would forgive me, if you knew ; but words 
are useless. Farewell ! ” 

These words decided her. She again changed her 
purpose, came back, and said — 

“ Archy, one word. You hurt me just now as I 
little thought any friend of my husband — any man I 
respected, or who respected me, could hurt me ; but 
I will not, for one rash act, forget what I wanted to do, 
and which I thought — perhaps very foolishly — I alone 
could do. Will you hear me calmly ? ” 

Again Archy bowed. 

“ I have seen, then, for some time, and I am sure 
others have seen too — no, do not mistake me — I do 
not mean Mr. Hell ; he has too much faith in your 
good sense to allow such a thought to enter into his 
mind ; I meant Miss Addersley — she has seen, as I 
have, how you — ” 

“ Mrs. Hell,” said Archy at last, interrupting her 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


247 


with a great effort, “ allow me only to tell you this; 
it is a miserable apology for my weakness — I know 
that; but perhaps it may slightly modify your thoughts 
of me to hear it. Do you remember that, on the first 
morning of our meeting here — the morning when I 
had so terrible a story to relate — you had previously 
spent some time on Norman’s Mount.” Winny remem- 
bered, and coloured to the very eyes, and was, I fear, 
again growing angry, but that Archy continued — 

11 1 was, through the merest accident, on the very 
summit when you came ; and I was at first withheld 
by the fear of disturbing you from making my pre- 
sence known, and then — then — ” 

Archy could not proceed, unless he might have 
poured forth, in glowing words, the burning thoughts 
that were within ; but Winny understood — what 
woman would not ? — all that the sudden break left 
unexpressed. Presently Archy continued, evidently 
struggling with all his might to moderate his emo- 
tions and language — 

“As I looked on you I fancied it was Miss 
Addersley who stood before me, and — and I re- 
mained under that impression for some hours— hours 
that were bnt too eventful for me. When I learned 
the truth I wrestled with myself, and thought I had 
conquered, and that the daily and growing pleasure I 
felt in your society was merely that which every one 
would feel — ought to feel, who could understand you 
— as I did. I know now the difference, and I — believe 
me — I am sufficiently punished.” Not a word more 
would Archy say. He felt that he had no right even 


248 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


to play, by means of his own emotions, upon the 
emotions of the woman before him. And she under- 
stood the control he was exercising, and began to 
recover some of her former respect for him. 

“ I am glad, Arcby, you have told me this, for it 
removes what would have been always the most pain- 
ful and inexplicable feature of the case to me — how 
you could first have admitted so dangerous a tenant. 
But time presses. We must now say at once, and for 
ever, what remains to be said. You must leave us.” 

“Yes, I have already seen that,” replied Archy ; 
but the mingled depression and resignation of his 
tone, and the profound melancholy visible in his face 
as he spoke, touched Winny more than she liked to 
be conscious of, and then insensibly modified, though 
they could not change her purpose. 

“ Archy, you must get over this manfully. I was 
pleasing myself with the thought that my husband 
would find Jn you an attached, faithful friend. I 
sometimes fancy — this is only to your own ear, and 
because I want you to think differently of me than 
you have done, both for your own sake and mine — I 
sometimes fancy I shall die young ; I do not mean 
just now, or next month, or perhaps next year ; but 
I am sure, Archy, you will never see me a grey- 
haired woman, and so have to wonder how you could 
have been so foolish — ” but here Archy, instead of 
smiling, as she had intended he should, at her kindly 
jest, burst into a passion of tears, and wept audibly — 
turning away from her, as though he would have 
gladly gone out of the world before he had heard such 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


249 


painful words, and from one whom he dared not 
attempt to comfort. What little right that way he 
might have claimed he had just forfeited by his conduct. 

And Mrs. Dell wept with him, though still smiling 
through, her tears — still rousing and cheering the 
unhappy man before her. 

“ Come, come, Archy, let us have done with this. 
Perhaps, after all, it is only a morbid delusion of 
mine; and, perhaps, if I have true friends — true 
friends, Archy — ” this was said with an accent so full 
of meaning that it was impossible it could be mistaken 
— “friends strong enough to keep me here — ■” 

Archy rose, moved by an impulse that he did not 
need to control, came to Mrs. Dell, took her hand, and 
respectfully kissed it, saying — 

“Will you trust me once more, for the last time ?” 

“ I will, Archy — as if you were my own dear — 
dear brother !” 

“ Oh, God knows — if you will accept me as a brother, 
you shall never again be troubled with this — this 
folly; only do not mistake me if I continue to reve* 
rence you as never yet man did reverence a sister. I 
thought you would save me — felt you would save me, 
and you have done so, but in a way I little dreamed 
of. Allow me for the last time to touch this dear 
hand— sacred to me evermore.” She held it out, and 
Archy kissed it, and a tear dropped on it ; — and at 
that moment Grace appeared, and was about hurriedly 
to withdraw in some confusion, real or feigned, but 
that Mrs. Dell stopped her. 

“ Grace, if we wished to have any secrets from you, 
11 * 


250 


TIIE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


which I don’t think either of ns do, we are both alike 
sure you would make it too difficult for us to succeed. 
I have seen, dear, your watchful eye many a time 
upon us, and I have understood how you might — 
must feel, when you knew what I also knew, and 
what Mr. Cairn has but now acknowledged — only, 
however, because I taxed him with it. It is but 
justice to him to say that. But it is all over now. 
If my interference has caused him some pain, he for- 
gives me, and justifies me, and repays me by a great 
sense of relief for the future. He is cured, believe 
me, even though he may need, just a little longer, our 
womanly sympathy and help. You understand, Grace?” 

Grace listened, and turned her face away as she did 
so, that the shadow darkening over this at last should 
not be seen, and that she might give herself time to 
recall her wandering — almost paralysed — thoughts, 
before Mrs. Dell or Archy might see or suspect the 
terrible nature of the blow they were unconsciously 
inflicting. What to her just then was all this idle 
prattle ? She longed to be away — felt she was stifling 
for air and freedom, but instinctively remembering 
the future, re-prepared herself to play her part for a 
brief instant, so said — 

“ Yes, yes. Of course my anxiety was for him, and 
I congratulate him, if, indeed, he feels he has con- 
quered.” Then Grace walked away to the window, 
opened it, looked out for a moment, and when she 
again drew back from the window and spoke to them, 
it was merely to say — 

“ Surely there is thunder in the air ! How sti- 


TEACHER AND PUPIL. 


251 


flingly close,, for September, everything feels! And 
then she tried to look on and listen with due attention, 
during the rest of the conversation, but she could not 
succeed ; she saw and heard only as men see and hear 
when moving in a trance. 

“ And now, Archy, 77 continued Mrs. Dell, “I have 
news for you. In fact, I have waited for some such 
opportunity before speaking. I thought it would be 
much better for you to seem to be called away, than — 77 

Archy could only leave Mrs. Dell to guess as to 
the gratitude he felt for this new proof of her sweet 
womanly consideration; and he therefore again 
bowed his head, and then waited silently for the 
intelligence she had to communicate. 

“Mr. Dell has received a letter from his friend, Mr. 
Payne Croft, suggesting you should meet him at 
Chatham the day after to-morrow, and stating that he 
thinks he has got a clue to the discovery and expo- 
sure of your enemy, and the decisive establishment 
of your innocence. Mr. Dell is on the lawn. What- 
ever the result, you will find your friends unchanged 
when you come back. Farewell ! 77 

Mrs. Dell held out her hand, but when he was 
about to kiss it, she exclaimed — 

“ No, Archy ; take an honest, friendly grasp of it, 
if you will !” 

“ God bless you — for ever and ever ! 7 ’ 

And the grasp was exchanged, and the meeting 
and parting over. Grace had already disappeared : 
neither Archy nor Mrs. Dell had noticed when or 
wherefore. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 

Grace Addersley was not what would ordinarily 
be called a “ dreamer,” and she would have been the 
last person to recognise herself in such a description. 
Yet now, a few words from Mrs. Dell, and one single 
glance at that lady’s face, and from thence to the face 
of Archy, had told her that she had been dwelling 
for many weeks together in one of the most consum- 
mately aerial structures that ever deluded the fancy 
of a human being ; and that she had done so without 
the remotest suspicion of the brittleness or fragility 
of the tenement, or of a sudden crash that would 
some day envelope her in its ruins. 

She knew it now ; and that first awakening was 
itself more like a dream than the actual illusion that 
was passing away. But when she had left Mrs. Dell 
and Archy — had once fairly got outside the door — 
she started along the corridor with the bound of a 
wild panther seeking in a paroxysm of hunger for. 
some coveted prey : but she recollected herself before 
any eye could note the change ; and she was rewarded 
— for another door opened, and Mr. Dell appeared. 


A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 


253 


He spoke to her jestingly upon some casual topic, and 
she answered with a felicity that, in the existing state 
of her mind, had something truly heroic. But he un- 
consciously tried her still further. She had, for her 
own reasons, drawn him into a habit of speaking so 
unreservedly, that even the topic of all topics — the 
one nearest to his heart, and which never far left his 
heart, except when invited forth by the person more 
directly concerned, or by his fair cousin — the traits 
of his wife’s character, had been sometimes the subject 
of remark and sympathy between them. He could 
not help, just now, in his quiet, half unintentional way, 
describing to her a little incident that Grace could not 
afterwards distinctly remember, but which seemed to 
the fond husband so full of simple beauty and indi- 
viduality of character, that he dwelt upon it, and 
seemed to think Grace would also like to dwell upon 
it, with unusual unction. Grace even bore this, and 
acquitted herself so thoroughly to his satisfaction, 
that he left her radiant with pleasure, and glowing 
with brotherly affection for the friend and cousin, 
whom he now more than ever valued. And again 
she started off, eager for, almost fiercely demanding, 
solitude. There was, however, to be another inter- 
ruption — her mother waited for her in her favourite 
room, and began her usual personal complaints; 
which, of late, Grace had listened to with a patience 
and considerateness strangely at variance with her old 
habits while she and her mother remained under the 
sun of South America. But Mrs. Addersley had not 
come to-day merely to satisfy a selfish personal mood ; 


254 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


she had brought with her a rich present, a shawl of 
almost fabulous value, that she had hoarded up for 
many a year, often exhibiting it to her daughter’s 
longing eyes, but never — or rarely, wearing it herself, 
and always silent about its ultimate disposal. 

“ Grace, dear, do you know why I have brought 
this to-day?” 

Grace looked — she could not answer, and her fierce 
expression seemed to indicate, u How dared her 
mother, of all persons in the world, just then stand in 
her path ?” Mrs. Addersley had not seen that for 
more than a twelvemonth, and she did not care to 
recall the scene when she had last witnessed it. But 
though she felt uncomfortable, she went towards 
Grace with some little show, perhaps some little 
reality, of affection — threw the shawl about her 
shoulders, saying, as she did so — 

“There, Grace, it is yours at last. This is your 
twenty -seventh birthday.” 

“ See how I thank you for reminding me !” was the 
daughter’s reply, as, with gleaming and furious eyes, 
she snatched off the shawl as she might some poisoned 
garment, threw it on the floor, walked right across it, 
and left the room. 

Poor Mrs. Addersley trembled, but did not dare to 
resist this treatment. She took up the despised gar- 
ment, tried to wipe off the faint dust-marks that 
Grace’s feet had stamped there — it seemed indelibly 
— folded it up with a sigh, went to the window, and 
there saw Grace descending the external stair, cross 
below the black cedars, and disappear in the avenue 


A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 


255 


of Grey Ghost Walk. Mrs. Addersley did not feel 
in the least disposed to follow her, she went back to 
her own room, and applied herself to her usual 
resource for trouble or tedium — fancy needle-work. 

Grace went down the avenue with a somewhat quick- 
ened step, but with no other external sign that could 
have led an observer to suppose anything unusual the 
matter. But her whole manner changed when once 
she knew she was beyond the range of any eye or any 
ear: for jjrrey Ghost Walk was so straight, and so 
peculiarly shrouded by trees close at hand, and by 
high walls a little further off, that a wanderer there 
might rely upon the most absolute solitude, unless the 
first glance around showed that others had come pre- 
viously on a similar quest. Grace, therefore, seeing 
no one, knew there was no one near ; and when she 
reached a little mound she dropped upon it, heedless 
of the undried dew of the grass or the oozy soil 
beneath, and tried by shutting her eyes, and pressing 
her hands to her head, to quell the raging tumult that 
had broken loose within. In vain ! In vain ! The 
bonnet was presently thrown off — the crowning beau- 
tiful plaits of hair were clutched at convulsively and 
set free, and as the tresses flew wildly and sweepingly 
about in the strong breeze, the arms, half bare — for 
the sleeves fell low from the shoulders— rose despe- 
rately up towards the sky, tossing to and fro: — and 
then there was a low laugh, and the form fell back 
upon the mound at full length, and shook again, again, 
and again, with horrible inexplicable mirth. 

Not a word did she speak; self-control was yet 


256 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


paramount — but paramount as a sovereign on a day 
of carnival, when he sees and is obliged to submit to 
the licence of his own slaves. Presently she got up, 
her bonnet unheeded, her hair dishevelled and for- 
gotten, and walked to and fro, as a beautiful panther 
might walk that had lost its liberty, and was mea- 
suring in succession every one of the bars of its cage 
to see against which she should make the first despe- 
rate rush. 

But she does not find what she seeks — physical 
relief; relief from the swelling, suffocating, maddening 
sensation about the throat, that stops all thought, and 
drives her, consciously, to what must be a ruinous 
exposure. Her blood is boiling like a dammed-up 
stream just broken away from the mountain heights, 
and which can find no quiet passage, but chafes, and 
whitens, and circles, and rages uselessly, amongst the 
black, jagged, immoveable wall of rocks. To and fro, 
minute after minute, for a length of time that she is 
utterly unable to measure, she then paces ; until she 
fancies herself better, calmer, and then she again drops 
down upon the damp sward, hoping to think. 

And thought does come back to her. She hur- 
riedly feels for something in her pocket, and the 
strong, quivering, restless hands, which now seem 
animated by an almost independent life, presently 
bring forth a little morocco case. They open it slowly, 
as with a sense of some kind of pleasure once more 
beginning to grow, and with a sinister light upon that 
half-beautiful, half-devilish face. The case is unclosed, 
and two cards are drawn forth, photographic portraits 


A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 


257 


of a man and a woman. It is needless to ask whose 
portraits they are. Their present owner had begged 
them in one of her demonstrative moods of affection 
for her cousin and for his wife — Grace’s own dear, 
dear friend! Aye, and she does now value them 
more than ever. She places one — the man’s upon the 
grass carefully, and with a sort of wilful tenderness ; 
she then holds the other before her, and gazes at it — 
longingly, clingingly, frenziedly — till the holder’s own 
excited eyes begin to fancy they see the presentment 
shrink from them as the original had shrunk on that 
memorable day in the studio, when, under cover of 
the personification of the ballad, for the benefit of the 
painter, she had been able, for a single instant — a pre- 
cious one — to let forth, before both husband and wife, 
the real feelings that animated her. 

And still she gazes upon the portrait of Mrs. Dell 
with a reckless abandonment of herself to all the 
furious passions that possess her, and which, as they 
mingle and concentrate, change into one burning, 
irresistible stream of the deadliest hate. The sight 
of the portrait seems to break the long spell of silence ; 
and Grace murmurs to herself, in tones now seeming 
to be as deep almost as an organ-voice in their rich 
profundity, and now so high, harsh, utterly unlike 
their ordinary flute-like music, that Grace would listen 
to them appalled, were she capable of playing the 
part of a calm self-observer. 

u So : it was then the dream of an idiot after all ! 
And it is she herself who came to waken me, and I 
have not thanked her — but I do thank her ! aye, in 


258 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


my innermost soul ! Could’st thou but know how 
much ! 

‘ - 1 have failed egregiously — no doubt of that. Per- 
haps she knows it too, and in her condescending 
playfulness does not wish, unnecessarily, to provoke 
me by the display of her triumph ; she might think me 
dangerous perhaps. Why dangerous ? Look on me ! 
Answer if thou canst ! Why dangerous ! Did I sug- 
gest danger? Revel! Love! Write! Win him 
more and more ! Win the world if thou canst ! But 
beware that no conqueror steals in at the last hour to 
brush thee aside with a laugh, and take possession of 
all thy hardly earned fruits ! Thou art warned ! 
Beware ! He was mine — shall be mine again ! Let 
this kiss which I give him, before thee, burn into thy 
soul, in pledge of the truthfulness of my words. 
Again — and again ! May it burn into thee, as the 
sight of thy hangings about him — thy detestable 
caresses — have seared and eaten their way into my 
heart. 

u Oh, this is well ! I to threaten ! I ! — the puniest 
warrior that ever fancied it had enveloped itself in 
irresistible mail ! I ! who have dreamed of triumph 
and success, while walking mincingly and simper- 
ingly along the beaten way to the most ludicrous 
failure that ever rewarded, as it deserved to be 
rewarded, the folly of idiotic self-conceit. I have 
woven at the toil night and day, my tools and my 
enemies have walked into it just to amuse me, poor 
child ! — have waited for me to give the signal at my 
own time, and when they move at last, it is I alone 


A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 


259 


who am enmeshed, and who might have been, who 
deserved to be, the sport of all mankind ! But no, 
no, they have kindly spared me that exposure, and I 
will reward them. Smile your last, fair one; look 
round on the world and on the beauty that bewitches 
you ; sigh as you often do sigh. I will be merciful 
and not laugh the while ; but quick, have done with 
this leave-taking. There ! there ! there !” and as she 
spake, each word seeming like a blow upon the sward, 
she tore the photograph bit by bit ; and then hunted 
hungrily for the largest pieces that she might again 
tear them : still retaining the whole in her hand. 
And then rose, and seemed about to scatter the frag- 
ments on high, that the breeze, which had been grow- 
ing for some time in sound and power, might disperse 
them whither it pleased, if only it bore them from her 
loathing sight. 

But ever guarded in her worst moments by an 
instinctive caution, she repressed the impulse, when 
only a few morsels had escaped ; and she sought for 
these with a strange patience and pertinacity, saying 
to herself the while — 

“ One bit might tell the tale.” She soon regained 
them ; and then, with a small ivory paper-cutter, the 
only instrument she could find, she tore up a tuft of 
grass, and began digging eagerly in the dank soil 
below. When she had thrown out several handfuls 
of the earth, she paused, and began to drop the bits 
of card, one by one, from as high a point as she found 
allowed them to fall accurately into the cavity. While 
thus engaged, she again muttered to herself — 


260 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Why does that priestly mummery come into my 
thoughts now — ‘Ashes to ashes! Dust to dust!’ — 
Well, she may, perhaps, like it, and sleep more com- 
fortably in consequence!” And thus she dropped 
the whole into the place she had excavated ; and when 
she had finished, she looked round to see that no piece 
had escaped her; and she fetched some twigs, and 
fastened them across the little white heap, so that no 
movement of the turf above should disturb them ; 
and then she covered the twigs with soil, and pressed 
it down with her closed and jewelled hand, harder 
and harder, while she gazed furtively round to be sure 
she was still alone. And then she threw in more soil 
in a loose state to receive the roots of the tuft she had 
torn away, and which she now replaced; and after 
that she brushed off with her handkerchief the light 
particles of mould that clung to the blades of grass, 
until they all looked as fresh, green, and unsullied as 
the rest. Then she sat a moment, further removed, 
to look at the turf, and to judge if it appeared different 
from the surrounding surface ; and she did not feel 
quite satisfied until she had risen, walked away, and 
returned to cast a “ casual” glance (that was her idea) 
on the spot. And then she smiled in self-conscious- 
ness; a low sinister smile it was; and it said, “ I am 
myself once more — Grace Addersley.” And now 
the pacing to and fro recommenced, though in a less 
excited manner than before. And the tones became 
more even, though still there lurked a painful disso- 
nance amid all their honey -music. 

“I have failed — she has succeeded — is succeeding 


A DREAM AND AN AWAKENING. 


261 


still — meditates greater success. Yet she is very 
inconsistent — pity no true friend tells her so! Why 
in all this earthly delight she has — and this immortal 
glory she prepares for — why does she weakly seek to 
win pity for her odd fancies? Why does she think, 
as she has more than once said, she shall die early ? 
These are not fitting tools to play with, Mrs. Dell : 
believe me, they are not. Die early ! what a strange 
fancy for so young a creature ! Poor thing ! She 
lacks experience, she tells me. It is so hard, she says, 
for a woman in these conventional days to realize 
what life is, and what it is capable of. Would she 
thank me to teach her, I wonder?” She paused, 
looked round in every direction, then let her thoughts 
return in silence to her. And she was long immova- 
ble, looking at that little tuft ; and when at last she 
roused herself, she glanced about with a strange uneasi- 
ness, as though roused with an idea that thoughts 
themselves, unspoken thoughts, might possibly be 
heard by some species of living things. Her flesh 
crept for an instant as she fancied she caught the 
rustle of invisible forms passing and touching her. 
But she laughed as she recollected herself. 

And then she took out her watch — stared a moment 
incredulously at the hands, put it to her ear, and 
said — 

“ Is it possible ! Well, it is for the last time; no 
more self-forgetfulness now !” And then, having no 
glass, she arranged her hair with an elaborate careful- 
ness, re-crowning herself with those fair, soft, light- 
hued plaits as though she were a queen, about to 


262 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


receive, or be presented to, some mighty potentate; 
and she felt her face all over with her hands ; but 
again laughed at the absurdity of attempting thus to 
discover how she looked : besides, she felt sufficiently 
within her that which told of the deadly whiteness 
that must be covering her without ; so she resolved 
that no one should see her until she had regained her 
colour, quiet, and elasticity, in her own room. 

Peace had come — such as it was. Once more she 
felt able to do whatever her spirit resolved on ; and 
before she reached the end of the Walk and was ad- 
vancing below the cedars, she felt the blood had come 
back to her cheek. Then she heard Mr. Dell call to 
her from the lawn, but she appeared not to hear ; and 
got out of his sight as speedily as she could. She 
ascended the winding stairs with a stealthy step such 
as she had never before known ; and she looked with 
a kind of fascination on the green tufts between the 
cracks of the stones as she passed ; for each seemed 
so like the one tuft she had just left behind. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

ANOTHER VIEW FROM NORMAN’S MOUNT. 

If Grace had stopped when called to, as she passed 
from the seclusion of Grey Ghost Walk back towards 
her own chamber, she would have noticed that Archy 
was with Mi/. Dell on the lawn, and have learned that 
both were desirous to consult with her on the letter 
that had just been received from Mr. Payne Croft. 
As to Archy, he had a still stronger secret motive : 
he yearned to say a word — or if that were possible, 
then to give the w r ord’s equivalent in a look, or a 
pressure of the hand, that might intimate to Grace 
that Mrs. Dell had spoken truly — he was cured. He 
thought she would not only be glad herself to know 
that he had thoroughly righted himself, but that she 
would make Mrs. Dell know it too 1 He wanted them 
both to feel satisfied that when he returned to Bletch- 
worth, after the journey he was about to take, they 
might dismiss all fears of him, and that all might 
meet under less restraint than would otherwise be pos- 
sible. It was in effect an impulse of gratitude : and 
Archy was grieved, as Grace disappeared from their 


264 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


view, that he was unable to acknowledge to her the 
debt he owed her. 

But if Grace had known of his wishes, and had 
given him an honest answer, it would have been to 
ask, who was he — a stranger — to appeal to her thus? 
Her interest in him was as absolutely dead as if it 
had never existed. Already a whole lifetime of emo- 
tion seemed to divide her from the state of mind that 
had alone caused her to think about him, his story 
and career, his character and wishes. 

Archy, however, remained in happy ignorance of 
the change, and continued, therefore, during his chat 
with Mr. Hell, to look wistfully from moment to mo- 
ment towards the spot where he had ’seen her cross, 
hoping she would again appear before them. 

Yes, he was undoubtedly cured. Mrs. Hell, by her 
decision, frankness, and sympathy, had called forth 
all his better qualities, and shamed away the worse. 
Archy dated from this exquisitely painful but most 
wholesome hour of discipline the beginning of a true 
manly life at last. He began now to work at reali- 
ties ; and to give up the unprofitable business of 
aerial castle-building. 

Mr. Hell saw the change, though fortunately for 
Arehy’s future peace of mind, he had no suspicion of 
the cause. He attributed the young man’s reviving 
spirits to the receipt of the letter, and to the prospect 
it opened of re-establishing his character, and he be- 
lieved, not altogether incorrectly, that Archy ’s over- 
flow of grateful feeling was intended as an acknow- 
ledgment that he had of late somewhat forgotten the 


ANOTHER VIEW FROM NORMAN’S MOUNT. 265 


friendly ties that bound them. So, in losing his friend 
for a few days, Mr. Dell was very glad to think he 
had recovered him for a lifetime. 

Archy held the letter in his hand, and looked at it 
again and again, as they wandered about, putting occa- 
sionally a question concerning it. 

“ May I ask who this Mr. Payne Croft is, who 
writes so kindly about me ? ” 

“ A rising barrister on the Western Circuit, and an 
old friend of mine. But, between ourselves, Archy, 
I will acknowledge to you my suspicion, that it is not 
at all to please you, and only in a very moderate 
degree is it to please me, that Mr. Payne Croft goes 
out of his way to make you this offer.” 

“ Indeed ? you surprise me.” 

“Very likely. Archy, don’t let my whisper be 
again whispered further on, or you’ll plunge me into 
a pretty mess with the ladies. Payne Croft was 
much struck with my cousin ; and though I suspect 
he has said nothing, for he is a sly, cautious fellow, 
who won’t speak till the very hour of doom comes*, 
yet I see in this letter evidence of a latent desire to 
keep open his connexion with Bletchworth.” 

Mr. Dell looked at Archy, and gave a pleasant, low, 
cheery laugh, as he glanced in the direction of Grace’s 
room ; and then sauntered with him along the white 
shell-covered paths of the lawn, pausing occasionally to 
enjoy the fragrance or the beauty of a tall standard rose, 
or to luxuriate, with a painter’s eye, on the glowing 
and harmonious tints of the various beds of flowers. 

“ Let’s see,” he continued, while critically scanning 
12 


. 266 . , . THE SHADOW II? THE HOUSE. 

a magnificent blossom of a newly -opened yellow Per- 
sian rose, “ where is it he says he will meet you at 
Chatham ? ” 

“ At a little public-house, close by the one that I 
used occasionally to frequent, and which was called 
the ‘ Jolly Soldier.’ ” 

“ And you say the Sergeant sometimes visited the 
‘ Jolly Soldier’ also ?” 

u Yes, after he first met with me there, and began 
to draw me into talk.” 

“Then the clue that Payne Croft thinks he has 
got seems to lead him alike to the 1 Jolly Soldier’ 
and to the Sergeant. Well, success to your joint 
campaign. Keep close — away from the ‘ Jolly Sol- 
dier,’ mind — as he bids you, till you understand his 
game. Ferret the vagabond out, but don’t unneces- 
sarily rip up the past and very painful story. The 
best thing for you would be, that the innocence of 
Martin Todd should be openly acknowledged, and 
no one know or care for the result to Archibald 
Cairn. And, failing that, the next desirable thing 
would be for you to obtain some real, though not 
open, proof of your innocence, which might be forth- 
coming at any future time, and be unquestionable 
when produced in the event of any hostile attack 
being made upon you, grounded upon the old mis- 
fortune. But in this noble society of ours there is 
such a damaging influence often exerted by a fact, 
through its mere existence — I mean that every one 
acknowledges to be clear and unimpeachable as to 
its moral harmlessness, but which almost every one 


ANOTHER VIEW FROM NORMAN’S MOUNT. 267 


at the same time shrinks from too closely associat- 
ing with in their own proper persons and interests, 
that I advise you strongly not to be too chivalrous 
in your self-assertion. Don’t throw aside unneces- 
sarily the shield that your fictitious name has given 
you. Don’t insist fanatically in the person of Archi- 
bald Cairn for the right of remedying the wrongs 
done to Martin Todd. Be guided in all such matters 
by Payne Croft. And indeed, for that matter, you 
must: I promise you he won’t be played with or 
dictated to. Once in his hand, you must let him 
guide all. But you must trust him : especially in 
this — he will do as much as any lawyer possibly 
can do in his professional capacity to understand 
and to be considerate of the feelings of a gentleman, 
while fighting his battle with all the weapons that 
his legal lore has enabled him to accumulate, and 
with all the practised skill of fence that experience 
and love of his vocation have gradually taught. I 
like Payne Croft — for a lawyer. And you will like 
him too — if you don’t forget my qualification.” 

“And — and — as to Mrs. Dell’s lessons in my 
absence ?” 

“ Ob, a little rest will do her good. By the bye, 
Archy, did you ever wonder why I didn’t myself 
undertake that task ?” As Archy had wondered, he 
couldn’t help saying so, thus challenged. 

A half-blush rose to Mr. Dell’s face, and he was 
not so successful as he wished to be in trying to 
carry it off by a cough, as though something were 
troubling him in his throat, an insect or a bit of 


268 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


the rose-petal that he had been dallying with on his 
tongue. So he said with a smile — 

“ Well then, I’ll tell you. I knew very well that 
I should only make-believe if I attempted it,” and 
there he stopped, and said no more. But Archy 
understood perfectly well how easy it was to be mak- 
ing believe to give lessons to Mrs. Bell ; and didn’t 
need to wait for further confidences, which he could 
neither desire to receive, and which certainly Mr. 
Bell would be the last man to bestow. In truth, the 
latter would not have spoken at all, but for a sort of 
uneasy impression that people at home must wonder 
that he, who was so well fitted to impart to Winny 
the knowledge she most needed, did not accept the 
duty. It may even be owned that there was a kind 
of excusable selfishness in his wish to enjoy uninter- 
ruptedly with his wife the delight of a free com- 
munion with her intellect as well as with her heart, 
and to leave to others the details of furnishing that 
intellect with the needful aids. But if that feeling 
was blamable, it sprang from the one blamable part 
of Mr. Bell’s character, a thirst for enjoyment, which 
too strongly modified his willingness to labour; a 
keener sense of the wealth and vividness of life than 
of life’s responsibilities; a more active participation 
in the instincts of affection than in the logical duties 
that naturally pertain to them or grow to them. 

But that little question and explanation has done 
more than relieve Mr. Bell’s mind from a slight 
embarrassment ; it has tested Archy, and found him 
worthier than before. lie has found he can take a 


ANOTHER VIEW FROM NORMAN’S MOUNT. 269 


real interest in the husband’s love for his wife — a 
love that has been now so unwillingly and unobtru- 
sively, even while so frankly, acknowledged to him ; 
and though he feels and believes — perhaps rightly — 
that he shall never look upon any other woman in 
the years to come as he had looked upon Mrs. Dell, 
yet he also feels, and partly acknowledges to himself, 
that life is not to be treated as the mere arid desert 
henceforth that he has been anticipating ; that there 
are yet precious friendships to cultivate, noble duties 
to be fulfilled, and a mother — too long forgotten — to 
be reinstated in her old faith in her son. And Archy, 
reviewing all this, begins to yearn for work — for 
domestic peace, and to know that he has turned his 
back for ever upon temptation. 

Does Mr. Dell, with that quick penetrating glance 
of his, which always seems to be able to slide under 
the edges of everybody’s facial mask and scan the 
exact state of things below — does he know what has 
been, or does he guess what may be, passing in the 
secret chambers of Archy ’s heart? It looks very like 
it, for just when the latter holds out his hand to say 
“ Good bye,” Mr. Dell observes — 

“Oh, well remembered, Archy! when you come 
back I want to talk to you about a project I have in 
view. Norman-Mount farm will be vacant at Christ- 
mas. I want you to look out for a good tenant for 
me.” 

u Yes, with pleasure ! ” answered Archy, but some- 
what abstractedly, for he could not help asking him- 
self, “ Did Mr. Dell remember that he, Archy, had 


270 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


often said to him, in clays gone by, that if he had not 
so early in life been urged on by his parents to be a 
student, or if — in spite of that — he had possessed 
capital, he would, after his father’s death, both for his 
mother’s sake and on account of his own love of rural 
life, have turned farmer? Nay, that he had said to 
.'-Mr. Dell, then only the heir to Norman-Mount, not 
its, owner, as they stood on the height, and looked 
down over the farm — ‘ And that’s the place I would 
have 1 ’ ” Had Mr. Dell forgotten this ? Most likely ; 
but Archy had not. While education had been the 
business of his life, gardening and farming, in a small 
amUteur way, had been his hobby ; and his skill and 
scientific knowledge had more than once been noticed 
by the great agriculturist of the neighbourhood, Mr. 
Staunton. But Archy sighed now as he reflected that 
such a farm would need capital, even if Mr. Dell were 
inclined to trust him with it as his tenant. 

“ I suppose, Archy, your own tastes don’t incline 
that way ? ” 

“ They might, if it were of any use ; if, for instance, 
I had a thousand pounds to speculate with.” 

“ What if you were to manage it for me for a year 
or two, just to see how you get on? You couldn’t 
hurt me much if you failed, while, if you succeeded, 
I should have secured a trusty tenant.” 

“ You mean ? ” 

“ That I would in that case let you rent the 
whole.” 

“ But the capital ? ” 

“ The capital is in it, and there needs no more. I 


ANOTHER VIEW FROM NORMAN’S MOUNT. 271 


should make you pay me good interest till you could 
pay me off.” 

Archy dared not trust his ears — they must be de- . 
ceiving him ! Still less could he venture to raise his 
eyes to Mr. Dell’s face, remembering the recent scene 
with his wife ; so he only murmured in a broken 
voice, which he vainly tried to steady, as he gazed on 
the ground — 

“ Wait till this matter is cleared up — till — till you 
have seen me more practically deserving of your — ” 
goodness, he would have said — but could only advance 
half way through the sentence. But he thought of 
his mother, and how he might repay her for all she 
had suffered if such an arrangement could be carried 
out. But he was himself sick of mere words — pro- 
mises, and he felt the necessity of growing more chary 
of, that he might give more truth to, his demonstrative 
gratitude. Again he yearned to be at work — to be 
realizing something ; to be able to look back, and see 
that he had worked ! Ah, yes, from that eminence — 
once reached — he might venture to hope for, to build 
upon, to enjoy, a future ! At last he said, in a tone 
and manner implying at once so much more dignity 
and self-restraint than Mr. Dell had ever before noticed 
in him that it arrested his attention by its novelty — 

“ Mr. Dell, I cannot now thank you for this pro- 
perly. And I do not, for many reasons, feel justified, 
at present, either in accepting your offer or in holding 
you in the least degree bound to it hereafter. But if, 
when I return, and have had time for mature delibe- 
ration, and have consulted my mother, I should con- 


272 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


scientiously feel myself able to undertake the farm, 
and you would permit me to say so — ” 

“ But are you sure you would like it ? ” 

“ I do not think there is one other thing in the 
world to get bread by that I should like so well.” 

“ That’s enough. Off then to Chatham, and suc- 
cess to you when you get there ! ” 


CHAP TEE XXII. 

UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 

Shall I tell the impatient reader — if such a one 
now turns these pages— why I have dwelt so long 
upon the details of Archy’s mind and fortune, while 
mightier issues wait for development? It is, then, 
that I think the world is too often impatient, too 
often selfish in its dealings with men whom it calls 
“ weak.” If there be one principle more than an- 
other rife with the seeds of moral evil, social strife, 
and spiritual atheism, it is that principle which runs 
like a poisonous underground river below the whole 
fabric of our civilization, and which says — not in 
words, it is too cunning for that, but in acts, and in 
theories which justify and stimulate the acts — that 
strength was given to the strong to prey upon and 
profit by the weak; that weakness was permitted, to 
insure an ample supply of legitimate victims for 
the strong. It is only wonderful — and it shows 
how the natural instincts may be corrupted by long 
misuse — that men can ever conceal from themselves 
the inherent baseness of such a creed, or the terrible 
lengths to which they have permitted it to be car- 
12 * 


274 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


ried. Nobleness, generosity, self-sacrifice, human 
brotherhood, or to sum up all in one word, Chris- 
tianity — are these indeed but empty names? — or 
worse, the tinkling cymbals with which some enthu- 
siast, from time to time, charms and deludes him- 
self, while simply amusing the more cunning world? 
Are there really tracts of life in which it is good to 
do good, and yet other tracts in which it is good to 
do evil? May we determinedly pursue our own 
interests without a moment’s care as to how our 
actions will affect the interests of others, and may we 
at the same time legitimately insist — This is civiliza- 
tion — this is love — this is the true meaning of the Di- 
vine Master ! Woe to him who dares to say otherwise ! 

It cannot be denied that Archy has shown great, 
frequent, and, what many minds must think, hope- 
less weakness. Undoubtedly it would have been 
hopeless, if those around him had only thought so 
too ; that belief would have effectually despatched 
him. But Mrs. Dell was not one of those cast-iron 
legislators of society, neither was Mr. Dell. They 
might have failed, and so have suffered a disap- 
pointment that more prudent people would have 
taken care to shun ; they may fail yet, and if so, 
must find consolation from the knowledge that the 
failure is fcot due to them — has happened in spite 
of them. But if they are successful, let their prac- 
tical creed — which springs from their hearts, but is 
defended by their heads, and sanctioned by an old- 
fashioned homily called “The Sermon on the Mount” 
■ — have the full benefit of the success. 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


275 


On the appointed day, and at the hour indicated 
in the letter, Archy walked into the little back par- 
lour of the “ Barley Mow,” at Chatham, which was 
situated about a hundred yards or so from the 
“Jolly Soldier.” Strangely nervous and uncom- 
fortable he felt. He trusted, however, that no one 
would recognise him ; and he looked so different 
now — so quiet, unassuming, and gentlemanly, to 
what he had looked as the gloomy, haggard, discon- 
tented soldier in his private’s dress, that it would 
not have been easy for any one who had not had a 
tolerably intimate acquaintance with Martin Todd 
to identify him in his present dress and appearance, 
which had all the effect of a disguise. 

As he entered the room, he saw a gentleman, not 
very young, with an acute, deeply-lined face, bril- 
liant eye, and rather close-cut hair, busily engaged 
writing at a table. He looked up on hearing the 
door opened, and said, scarcely stopping his pen — 

“ You are ? — ” 

“ Mr. Cairn.” 

“ Thought so. All right. Sit down.” 

And he went on writing, and for awhile took no 
more notice of Archy, who on his part supposed he saw 
Mr. Payne Croft, but could not be at all sure. As 
Archy watched he was reminded of Chaucer’s lines — 

“ O where* a busier man than he there n’as,f 
And yet he seemed busier than he was.” 

* Owhere, anywhere. Tyrrwhit gives it as “ nowhere,’’ — strength- 
ening, not annulling the negation. 

\ N'as , ne was, or was not. 


276 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Not the least trace of the gentleman who was so 
shy and so reserved among the ladies of Mr. Dell’s 
party was here visible. Like Helen McGregor, 
Payne Croft had now got his foot on his native soil 
— business; and he was self-possessed, imposing, and 
consequential. When he had at last finished his 
occupation of letter-writing, and closed up and 
stamped some eight or ten letters, and put them into 
his pocket ready for the post, he began to speak a 
little more freely, and with something like a smile ; 
and then — to Archy’s surprise, who had felt rather 
qualmish at his treatment — came to him, held out 
his hand, and gave him a cordial grasp. 

“ I’m a busy man, you see. Couldn’t have come 
here but that I knew I could manage my own affairs 
and yours at the same time. Yery glad to see you ; 
now to work — read that.” And so saying, he put 
into Archy’s hand what appeared to be a scrap cut 
from a newspaper. 

Archy read, and, need I say, read with the great- 
est surprise and alarm — if it be remembered how 
all the sensitiveness natural to his character had 
been revived and stimulated by his recent life at 
Bletchworth — 

“ We are informed that , a young sol- 

dier who was drummed out of his regiment at the 
barracks for general bad conduct, including a 
case of tfieft, is collecting proofs of his innocence, 
which at the same time implicate a non-commissioned 
officer of the regiment. It is said, though we cannot 
pretend to decide with what truth till we know 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


277 


more of the evidence — which, it seems, is about 
to be laid before the proper authorities — that the 
officer in question had tried to make use of the 
young man’s ability as a penman for dishonest pur- 
poses, and when he found the latter resist, had 
trumped up the story of the theft to get him turned 
out of the regiment with disgrace : an attempt in 
which it seems he only too well succeeded. We 
shall watch the denouement with some interest, and 
let our readers know the result.” 

“ And this has appeared in print — publicly ?” fal- 
tered Archy. 

“ Yes, I wrote it myself, and got it sent to a small 
local paper that was apparently languishing for 
want of news. This was news, I take it.” 

Archy stared, and said to himself — “ !News in- 
deed ! What ! expose everything thus to the enemy 
at the outset ?” 

Mr. Payne Croft looked at him a moment with 
the sort of placid enjoyment that he always felt in 
looking through half shut, but only therefore the 
more self-concentrating, eyes on those whom his 
tactics alarmed ; but time was precious, so he rapidly 
cut short all Archy’s wonderings by a word qr two 
of explanation. 

“ There are two men here, whom I want specially 
to influence — the man who lost the sovereign that 
you were charged with stealing, and whom I have 
already seen for a minute or two, and the Pay- 
Sergeant, to whom you believe you owe all your 
trouble. I sent a copy of that paragraph to 


278 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


both, as from a friend, with a request for a meet- 
ing.” 

'“Yes?” said Archy, assentingly, but also inquir- 

ingly- 

“ Both men, I hope, are coming to see me this 
morning. I haven’t many hours to spare, and am 
determined to get to the bottom of the business 
while I stay.” 

“ Both coming here ?” 

“No, no; that would be bad generalship. The 
Sergeant looks for me at the 4 Jolly Soldier,’ and as 
to the other — oh, here he comes ; mind, I suspect he 
van speak but won’t : dreading a fate like your own. 
Hush !” Mr. Bayne- Croft ceased : a soldier entered, 
looked uneasily round for a moment, and, seeing 
Archy, was about to retreat, but that Mr. Payne 
Croft’s laugh stopped him. 

44 Why, don’t you know your old comrade, Martin 
Todd ? «Todd has not forgotten you, I see. Don’t 
be afraid, man — he isn’t too genteel, though he looks 
so, to shake hands with a brother soldier.” Archy 
could not, for the life of him, tell what to make of 
all this ; but he fancied Mr. Payne Croft wished him 
to appear cordial to the fellow, so he advanced, hold- 
ing out his hand and saying — 

“ Why, Morgan, is that really you ?” Morgan, in 
a sullen, stupid sort of way, allowed his hand to be 
taken, but said nothing, and sat down in a dark 
corner. > He there waited to hear what Mr. Payne 
Croft had to say. That gentleman first addressed 
himself to Archy. 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


279 


“ When I came here, yesterday, I sent a copy of 
that newspaper cutting to our friend here, and told 
him that he would see from the paragraph that an 
important movement was going on, but that before 
it affected him I wished to learn whether he was — * 
what you said you believed him to be — an honest 
man, and no party to the fraud that had been com- 
mitted. I asked him therefore to meet us here, and 
I added (but that, I dare say, did not at all influence 
him in coming), that while we might be severe in 
dealing with one state of things, we should be in- 
clined to be liberal — even in a pecuniary sense — under 
another. Do you sanction my words, Mr. Todd ?” 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly,” said Arcliy, beginning 
to enter into the spirit of the proceedings, though 
really suspecting, almost fearing, that the clue that 
had been talked of in Payne Croft’s letter was sim- 
ply Mr. Payne Croft’s confidence in his own power 
to unravel any mystery, however intricate. 

“Very well. Now then, Morgan, rattle along. I 
must be at Exeter to-morrow, unless I return, to- 
night, a brief that inclosed a cheque for fifty guineas. 

If one goes back, t’other must go too. Under- 
stand?” 

Morgan grinned. The conversation was getting 

within his range, and his somewhat dull imagination 

began to intimate to him that this must be no ordi- 
© 

nary man. “ Who then was Todd ? Why, of course 
he was what he had always suspected him to be ; 
yes, he must fie a gentleman !” 

Mr. Payne Croft watched every movement of the 


280 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


man’s eye, and could measure almost as accurately 
every thought of the man’s mind. “ Come, we’ll 
have no secrets, Todd, with an honest fellow like 
this. Confess you have been sowing a few uncom- 
monly strong wild oats, and that he, Morgan, had 
the luck to be a witness (for it was luck, if he knew 
his own interests) of the final part of the process. 
Well, I’ll speak for you, if you’re shy. Recognise 
then, Morgan, in Martin Todd, a gentleman, and 
the son of an old officer, of some rank in the army. 
Know further, that he now comes here to clear up 
a very ugly bit of business, with or without your 
help. See,” and he took out his watch, “ I’ll spare 
you ten minutes, and then, if we haven’t come to 
conclusions, we’ll stop. And look yet again : I put 
on the table here ten sovereigns. At the end of the 
ten minutes they shall be yours, if you’ll honestly 
earn them. What say you ? A sovereign a minute ! 
That’s good pay, I hope ? I wish my calling were 
as lucrative !” 

“ What do you want me to do?” at last said the 
man, slowly measuring out his words. 

“ Answer a few questions.” 

“ Yes, and so get myself into trouble — as he did.” 
Morgan stopped, and pointed to Archy. 

“ Oho ! are you there : all right !” thought Mr. 
Payne Croft, as he said gravely — 

“ I give you my word of honour that if you are 
no" yourself the rascal that — ” 

“ And if I were, d’ye think I’d tell you ?” grinned 
the man. 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


281 


“ Your observation is just, and sliows a profounder 
knowledge of human nature than I had expected. 
I stand rebuked. But go on. The minutes fly, and 
I shall dock off a sovereign for every one added to 
the ten.” Morgan grinned again at the gentleman’s 
“ joke ’’—but thought on the whole, perhaps, he had 
best make haste. 

“ Put your questions, and I’ll please myself whe- 
ther I’ll answer ’em.” 

*“ What about the sovereign, then, that you said 
you lost?” 

“ I did lose it.” 

“ Aye, but — ” what Mr. Payne Croft could have 
said, had he been compelled to go on, who shall 
reveal? He took care, however, not to go on; and 
his mysterious manner, mingled with the newspaper 
paragraph, settled the business, and brought forth 
the precious secret. 

“ Well, as I see you got some inkling — 

“ Inkling — eh, Todd ? What do you say?” chuck- 
led Mr. Payne Croft loudly to Archy, who was 
astounded at Mr. Payne Croft’s ease, audacity, and 
probable success ; but who, of course, answered the 
appeal to him in a correspondingly knowing manner. 
He shook his head, and appeared to reprove the. 
barrister’s inclination to repose confidence prema- 
turely in Morgan, by saying aside to him, in an 
under tone, yet so that Morgan could perfectly well 
hear — 

“ The less we appear to know j ust the better. 
Perhaps he can really tell us nothing worth paying 


282 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


for.” And then lie walked away, as though he had 
merely dropped some passing and unimportant 
observation. But Morgan not only heard, but fan- 
cied the golden vision was growing dim, and he 
suddenly blurted out — 

“ I did lose the sovereign for several weeks, and I 
could have staked my life it was gone altogether, 
till it turned up several weeks afterwards.” 

“ You mean after Todd’s sentence and punish- 
ment?” 

“ Yes, I found it in an old pair of trousers. It had 
slipped through a little hole, and got down the 
lining to the bottom. And that’s how I missed it;” 

“ Yes, yes — but of course we know all this; we 
want to clear up about the other sovereign. Who 
could have put that where it was found ?” 

“ It wasn’t me.” 

“ No,” interposed Archy; “ I said so at the first.” 

“ You did, I acknowledge it, Mr. Todd ; but be 
so good as to leave the case in my hand. It’s a 
ticklish one yet. We didn’t come here to learn that 
you were an innocent man. Your friends, of course, 
laugh at the idea of your stealing a sovereign ; why, 
Morgan himself smiles at it. But the minutes are 
going fast, and the sovereigns are vanishing faster 
still. Eh, Morgan ?” 

“ What the h — do you want more ?” angrily 
exclaimed the soldier, who didn’t understand this 
apparent failure upon the golden heap. He was 
losing his temper, and he hadn’t much of that to 
spare at the best of times. He thought he 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


283 


had done all that could he reasonably expected 
from him to insure Archy’s success and his own. 

“ We want to know who you think it was that 
put the other sovereign there.” 

“ Then I shan’t tell you.” 

“ You own, then, that you suspect?” 

“ Suspecting isn’t knowing, and it isn’t talking.” 
And the man became doggedly silent. 

“ Come, I know whom yon suspect, and I know 
why you don’t like to commit yourself to saying 
anything about him. But suppose we were in pos- 
session of proofs sufficient to ruin that man, and to 
prevent his injuring you or anybody else in the regi- 
ment, as he injured my young friend ? What then ?” 

“ What then ?” repeated the soldier, with a sly 
twinkle for once illumining the dull inexpressive 
eye — “ ah, then, I should say, if you’ve got such 
capital proofs — use ’em !” 

“ Very good! very true. Here, take half of the 
golden ten, in acknowledgment from me that I was 
caught — fairly caught. That’s for your wit, mind, 
and good-liumour ; not for your evidence. Like the 
round, heavy feel? Come, if you can but give me 
a lift, I’ll forget those five ; treat them as part of a 
fancy transaction, past and gone, and which left the 
business affair still to come on. See, the ten yet 
remain to be won! What’s the old saw? — 4 None 
but the brave deserve the fair !’ Arn’t these very 
fair, all fresh from the new coinage ? By the bye, 
Morgan, did you spend both those sovereigns ? That 
was dangerous if you did ?”' 


284 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ But I didn’t — I’ve got ’em still.” 

“ About you?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Let’s look at them.” In an instant the lawyer’s 
eye saw that both, though looking equally bright 
and new, were divided by several years in their 
dates of coinage ; and that one of them must have 
been very recently issued — being the current year. 
He went on — “ Can you tell me to a certainty 
which of these two was your own ?” 

“ Yes, I marked it when I found it in my trousers’ 
lining, for I was bothered by the two ; and I thought 
I would like to know one from the other in case of 
trouble.” The one that had been temporarily lost 
was, as the barrister had anticipated it would be, the 
older one. If, now, he could trace the course of the 
other into the Sergeant’s hands exclusively — but 
that seemed hopeless ; yes, and the more he weighed 
the difficulties, the more hopeless the task appeared. 
He must try a different tack ; and already his own 
shrewd forethought began to produce some of its 
natural and anticipated consequences. He noticed 
that the door, which had already been more than 
once opened by the landlord — a little, shrinking man, 
who just showed his thin, anxious face, and disap- 
peared with an apologetic gesture as he met Mr. 
Payne Croft’s inquiring eye — was again gently 
unclosed. Some one — perhaps the landlord — was 
listening outside, or doing something that it behoved 
the inmates to attend to. Taking up a paper, Mr. 
Payne Croft appeared to read it, and while thus 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


285 


engaged, he saw, by a side glance, that Morgan was 
looking towards the unseen person, and receiving 
some signal. In an instant, and before any one 
could have obtained, by sign or sound, the least 
intimation of his purpose, the barrister was at the 
door, saw the landlord beckoning eagerly to Morgan, 
collared him, and dragged him into the room, to the 
astonishment of all present. 

“ Now then, say what you have to say like a man ! 
we are all friends here, we have no secrets from each 
other.” 

The landlord looked about him in alarm, and evi- 
dently meditated a return to the passage. 

“ Come, you’ve a message for one of us — eh ?” 

“ Ye— yes.” 

“Yes, I know, — to Morgan, isn’t it?” — “Ye — . 
yes.” 

“ And from Sergeant Dunk ?” — “ Yes.” 

“ Come, don’ t make me do all the work ; he 
wants — ” 

“ To — to speak a word to Bill Morgan.” 

“ But he’s not in a hurry, is he ?” 

“Well, yes — he said he was.” 

“ Oh, very well. We’ve done with him. Say 
our business is finished. He shall come in a minute. 
Landlords shouldn’t set a bad example, and appear 
to be listening. Excuse my mistake. I’ll make all 
right with you before I go.” With bows, smiles, 
and eager apologies, the landlord went away, and 
Morgan prepared to follow him. But Mr. Bayne 
Croft objected to that part of the business. 


286 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ You see, my friend, business on the whole ad- 
vances — though time advances too — with frightful 
rapidity. You have owned, I think — and I have 
carefully noted in writing your words, for I valued 
them very much— that you never did really lose a 
sovereign at all. Yet you are aware that Martin Todd 
was, in effect, punished for stealing one from you. 
You couldn’t help that, you’ll say. No, not at the 
time, I own. But why did you keep what didn’t 
belong to you — I mean that other sovereign ? And 
why didn’t you inform your Captain, or some supe- 
rior officer, that this young gentleman had been un- 
justly punished, when you discovered the mistake ?” 

“ 1 did tell Sergeant Dunk.” 

“ Oho ! you did tell him ! come, come, that alters 
the case, Mr. Morgan. I see now Mr. Todd was 
right ; you are an honest man ! what did he say !” 

“ Wouldn’t believe me at first ; and got very angry 
and swore at me, and blasted me for a fool. Hadn’t 
he asked me over and over again to look in my 
pockets, and to look everywhere before I got so 
d — d positive and certain ? I own I was very posi- 
tive, but I couldn’t help asking him why he cared 
so much about my mistake? I didn’t know he had 
so much love for the youth ! — and then he settled 
down very fast. And when I persisted in knowing 
what I was to do about the sovereign that didn’t be- 
long to me, he said it was no use troubling about 
the matter now ; Martin Todd was a false name, and 
the bearer of it being really unknown would keep 
quiet for his own sake. That’s how he talked.” 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


287 


“ A false name, Todd ! What could he mean by 
that?” asked the barrister very gravely, and looking 
with arching eyebrows, and such an air of innocence 
at his client, that the latter would have laughed out 
if he had dared, and if he had not felt too keenly 
how much was depending upon his due support of 
Mr. Payne Croft. So he simply replied with an 
appearance of equal surprise — 

“ My name not Todd ! What on earth is it, 
thfen ?” 

4k Oh,” continued Morgan, 44 that was just what he 
said to me ; and when I asked him a third time 
what I had best do with the sovereign, he said, 4 Keep 
it, spend it ; 1 would. 5 But I was always uncom- 
fortable about the affair, and determined to myself 
I wouldn’t do anything of the kind. I didn’t know 
but he’d be coming down upon me afterwards.” 

44 1 see, Morgan, you are a ’cute chap ; oh, any- 
body can see that ! but what shall you say if the 
Sergeant is now coming to ask — it mayn’t be his 
first question, of course ; we all understand any 
amount of preliminary humbug — but what shall you 
say if his business is to ask you to give him back 
that sovereign, or to ask you to let him look at it, or 
to do something or other that will enable him to 
handle it, if but for a minute ?” 

44 1 shall say then, what I say now — nothing !” 
But Morgan looked, and grinned, and put his finger 
to his nose, in intimation of his entire comprehension 
of the question, and of the answer that might have 
been expected from him. 


288 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Well, now, I won’t compromise you ; upon my 
word of honour as gentleman, I won’t. I understand 
perfectly your position. The barrack would soon 
become too hot for you, as it proved for my friend. 
But don’t fear. All I now ask of you is, that you 
will pledge yourself, as a soldier and as a man who 
values his word, that if I divine rightly the objects 
of the Sergeant’s present visit, you will honestly 
inform us.” 

“ And if he tries to make me promise that I wotf’t 
tell you ?” 

“ Then you needn’t fear wdiat he says and does 
afterwards. Precisely because he ventures to ask 
you for such a promise! It is he, who will be in 
danger from you. Understand? You surprise me, 
Morgan ! Why, I would give one of -the apples of 
my eyes to get such a power over such a man if I 
were in your place, and felt as you feel. Eh?” 

Slowly the new idea was penetrating into that 
stolid cautious brain, but it established itself at last, 
and began to play strange antics when safely lodged 
there. The eyes rolled and brightened, the body 
heaved up and down with an inward laugh, and the 
voice presently expressed its share in the common 
excitement. 

“ D e, I see ! I got him at last !” 

“ No you hav’n’t, not yet, but you will have him 
if you mind what you’re about, and let me help you.” 

u Ay, but I have, though! D’ye think I’ve had 
my eyes shut all this while ? Not exactly. When 
I found my own sovereign, I saw, as any fool must 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


289 


have seen, that somebody must have gone to the 
expense of finding another for me ; and that they 
didn’t want to say anything about it. I know who 
it was that didn’t like Martin Todd ; and I found 
out what Martin Todd had tried to make the Cap- 
tain believe about — about ” 

“ The gentleman in question : quite right to shun 
names. Go on. You interest me.” 

“ And I watched him as a cat watches a mouse — 
and he saw that I did, and might be he didn’t like 
it— but still he was quiet and civil. One day he 
came, and he said to me (that was after the talk I 
told you of — when he advised me to spend the extra 
sovereign that had been found), he came to me, and 
he says, ‘ Bill, I got more silver than I knows what 
to do with. Take a couple of pounds’ worth, will 
you? You’ve got a couple of sovereigns, I know. 
Hand ’em over in exchange. It’ll oblige me.’ But 
I’d expected something o’ the sort a long while, so I 
rapped out a strong un.” 

“ What a— a— fib?” 

u Sommat like one, and I said I’d parted with 
them both ; sent ’em home. But he didn’t seem to 
believe me. And now he’s frightened again. Per- 
haps he guesses your errand.” 

“ Ho doubt of that, for I sent to him the same 
paragraph that I sent to you. Go to him, then, and 
we will wait your return.” But Morgan looked 
uncomfortable as the time for action arrived, and 
began to hesitate, when, to the surprise of all parties, 
there appeared at the door a new visitor, no less than 
13 


290 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Mr. Pay-Sergeant Dunk himself : a tall, well-built, 
powerful-looking man. 

“ Servant, gentlemen !” he said, as he entered, 
with a brazen assurance on his puffy, bloated face, 
that betokened he had by no means lost confidence, 
as yet, in himself. 

“ Your servant, Sergeant !” replied Mr. Payne 
Croft. “ Yery glad to see you. Sit down. What, 
our proceedings here got positively too interesting 
for you to resist joining any longer? Eh? Kind 
of fascination, perhaps ? Didn’t expect we should 
meet so soon ; but I like the meeting all the better 
for that very reason. Will you excuse us, gentle- 
men, for a few minutes ?” This was addressed to 
Archy and Morgan, who got up, but were stopped by 
the Sergeant, exclaiming — 

“ No — no, I have no secrets to talk about. All’s 
fair and above board with me.” 

“ As you please. But I advise you — I strongly 
advise you — to change your decision. I shan’t 
repeat my advice a third time.” 

The two men looked at one another steadily, 
searcliingly; but there were few who could over- 
power or even cope with Payne Croft at that game. 
The Sergeant dropped his glance, in embarrassment, 
and said — “ Oh, it don’t matter. As you please.” 
So the others went out. 

“ Now, Sergeant !” 

“Now then!” and there was an attempt at the 
brutal laugh which Archy had so often heard ; but 
it failed in that unkindly atmosphere. 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


291 


“ We know all!” 

“ Much good may it do.” 

“ Thank you, that’s a Christian sentiment ; and 
now, therefore, can 1 help suggesting in return, that 
it’s a pity you should let the matter do yon a great 
deal of harm ? See, I have both the sovereigns here ! 
Internal and external evidence all complete! Have 
examined all my witnesses ! Made all my notes. 
Am just about to pack up, and adjourn the court to 
— to — shall I tell you where ?” 

The Sergeant’s face began to tell tales ; all sorts 
of strangely dark and not very lovely hues appeared 
upon it. The barrister saw, and spared not. 

“ Come, Sergeant, it’s your last chance. Make a 
clean breast of it, and have done. It’s like physic ; 
must he taken when the time comes : and slow drink- 
ing and wyy faces don’t improve the taste. Will 
you hear my terms now, or at the Captain’s house ?” 

The Sergeant looked things unutterable, but said 
nothing. 

“ Here they are, and very moderate ones, I’m 
sure. That you acknowledge in writing Martin 
Todd’s innocence of the theft : — ” 

“ How the should I know that ?” 

“ Yery true. Here, Morgan !” and the barrister 
threw up the sash, and called out of the window to 
the private, who was walking in the backyard with 
Archy. Morgan came, and Mr. Payne Croft 
said — 

“The Sergeant wishes to know once more, and 
from your own lips, that you did find the sovereign 


292 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


you supposed you had lost, and for which this gen- 
tleman was so deeply compromised.” 

“ Yes, I told the Sergeant so, long ago.” 

“ Thank you, that will do.” And he closed the 
window and shut out the possibility of further 
speech. 

“You see, Sergeant, the first grand fact — the one 
upon which everything has turned — is proved irre- 
sistibly, even by an unwilling witness. It is for you 
therefore to say how far we are to go on, merely to 
compromise you more and more deeply at every 
step.” 

“What do you want?” hastily inquired the Ser- 
geant. 

“Your signature to this.” And he held out a 
paper, which lay before him already prepared. 
The Sergeant took it with those large dry hands, 
which crackled as he stood there rubbing the palms 
with the half-closed finger-tips, and at first he held 
it aloof as in a kind of simulated scorn ; but he drew 
it close and closer to his eye, and read the words — 

“ I, Matthew Dunk, Pay-Sergeant of Her Majes- 
ty’s regiment of and located at Chatham, 

do hereby acknowledge that I heard some time ago 
from Bill Morgan that he had found the sovereign 
which it was supposed Martin Todd had stolen ; and 
I beg Todd’s pardon for not sooner making the fact 
known to him. 

“ (Signed) . 

“ Chatham, Sept. 15, 1 85—.” 

“ Will you sign that ?” 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


293 


“ I’ll see you, him, and all creation blasted first !” 

“Yery good. Landlord!” The landlord answered 
instantly to the barrister’s call, and he proceeded — 
“ Go to Captain White’s quarters, give my compli- 
ments — Mr. Payne Croft’s compliments — there is my 
card — and say that both Mr. Sergeant Dunk and my- 
self will take it as a particular favour if he will step 
down here for a minute on a matter of importance 
connected with her Majesty’s service.” 

“ Send your own messages,' if you like — don’t 
meddle with mine !” roared the Sergeant. 

“ Mine then be it ; but, I assure you, the circum- 
stance will operate afterwards to your disadvan- 
tage.” 

“ Oh, d — you ! Let’s have done with this hum- 
bug. Landlord, make me a stiff glass of rum-and- 
water. Hot, with sugar — and strong as h — ! D’ye 
hear? Be quick.” The Landlord ran off, glad 
to delay Mr. Croft’s dangerous-looking commis- 
sion. 

Mr. Payne Croft forgot now the ebb of time, and 
watched and waited silently, and without the least 
impatience. Sergeant Dunk walked about, hummed 
a stave or two, met the landlord as he re-entered, 
drank off the whole tumblerful of liquor at one 
draught, and ordered another to be got ready by the 
time he should call for it. Again the two men were 
alone. 

“ Come, Mr. Barrister, don’t be hard upon a fellow 
in a bit of a fix.” 

k< I won’t. Sign that. My employers expect very 


294 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


different terms ; but I am a man of the world, and 
know we must compromise to succeed.” 

“ Compromise? Why, isn’t this downright ruin?” 

“ No, I think not. I don’t mean that it shall be 
ever used against you, except in one or other of 
these three contingencies: — First, that my client is 
in serious danger from the revival of the story, which 
isn’t at all likely except through you, for his name 
is not Martin Todd ; — ” 

“ H’m ! I guessed that.” muttered the Sergeant. 

“ Secondly, that Morgan is troubled for his share 
in the business, which has been altogether a very 
unwilling one ; — ” 

“ Oh, he may go to the devil in his own time for 
me !” 

“ Thirdly, and lastly, that any charge shall be 
ever brought against } r ou by a superior officer for 
any kind of fraud or peculation in your post — if you 
retain it — which I don’t advise you to do. You are 
not so strong, Sergeant, you perceive, as you look ; 
and therefore, mustn’t take it unkindly if, both for 
my own character and satisfaction, and for your 
moral well-being in the future, I tie you up a bit. 
These are my conditions, if accepted now. They'll 
be worse in an hour’s time : and to-morrow — why, 
Chatham won’t hold you. Now choose. Don’t 
hurry. Have in that other glass of rum-and-water, 
and calmly think things over. You won’t wait? 
Want a pen? There ’tis then. Rather a straggling 
signature. Always write thus ? Stay!” Mr. Payne 
Croft again lifted the sash, and called Archy and 


UNKENNELLING THE FOX. 


295 


Morgan to come in. They obeyed him. He then 
summoned the landlord, who also came — the three 
looking wonderingly at each other. 

“ How, gentlemen, I am happy to say proceedings 
are drawing to a close. It doesn’t matter to you, 
Morgan, nor to you, landlord, what is written in 
that paper — but be pleased all to witness Sergeant 
Dunk retrace his signature upon it.” 

Sergeant Dunk again looked — almost with admi- 
ration, dashed with a good deal of something else 
though — upon the face of the barrister, who thus 
destroyed his last faint flickering ghost of a hope 
that he might deny that artificial signature. He 
now struck it out, and re-wrote it properly, with 
what he called “ a better pen and then all the 
others wrote their names, as witnesses, on the margin. 

“ Landlord ! there’s a sovereign, to be expended 
just as you please for the benefit of the house!” 
And the landlord went away rejoicingly. 

“ Morgan,” and the barrister drew the private 
aside, and put a roll of gold into his hands, so as to 
be quite unobserved the while ; it was tightly closed 
up in paper that the coins might not sound. He 
then said to him, “ If you find Sergeant Dunk take 
any advantage of you, let me know. But if you 
play any tricks upon him I go over to his camp. 
You guess how that would end — eh?” 

Morgan grinned, touched his head with a military 
salute, and walked off, thinking to himself with a 
kind of stolid wonder, “ Fifteen pounds ! Hot a 
bad day’s work !” 


296 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Now, Sergeant, shake hands. Forget and for- 
give ! This may he the making of a clever fellow 
like you, if you mind what you’re about. I’m not 
at all offended. I’d rather any time deal with a 
rogue than with a fool. Wouldn’t you ?” The brutal 
laugh did get out then at last with all its original 
gusto, as the Sergeant shook the proffered hand, and, 
drawing himself up to his full height, turned again 
to face the world, and marched away. 

“ And now, Mr. Cairn, for a good dinner, a bottle 
of wine, a chat and laugh together, a brief doze, a 
cup of tea, and then a long night’s work ; dry, hard, 
legal work to finish off with ! My programme for 
the rest of the day.” But he did not wait till 
after dinner for the promised laugh. It began to 
break out in little lialf-smothered coughs, until 
Archy, while vainly trying to express his sense of a 
life-long gratitude, caught the infection of the law- 
yer’s face, and suddenly roared again. Mr. Payne 
Croft didn’t change his own dry, measured mirth, 
but looked approvingly on Archy’s. Presently, as 
he saw the latter wiping away the tears from his 
eyes, he said — 

“ What amuses me is the fact — one which I don’t 
mind telling you now — that beyond sending that 
preliminary shell into the camp, before I came 
hither — I mean the newspaper paragraph — I hadn’t 
— on my honour, I hadn’t — a single useful thought in 
my brain this morning when I began, as to how I 
might, could, would, or should get any hold of these 
fellows, or as to what the solution would prove to be.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 

Archy found at dinner tliat Mr. Payne Croft had 
not yet done with finessing and trick ; though his 
objects were now so different, and he so cautiously 
approached them, that Archy would have been quite 
unsuspicious of his operations but for the word or two 
that had passed on the lawn at Bletchworth, about 
the barrister and Grace. As it was, the young stu- 
dent enjoyed amazingly the opportunity of watch- 
ing manoeuvres that were only to him sufficiently 
veiled to become attractive, and peculiarly piquant. * 
He did not, therefore, allow a word or a sign to 
escape him that might show he was aware of the 
manner in which he was being played upon, but 
answered all sorts of questions — of which some only 
related to Miss Addersley — although they contained 
nothing of moment to either ; and he kept up with 
spirit a long con versation without once appearing to 
notice the odd fact that it continually turned aside to 
glance at the same young lady; and he even man- 
aged — just as accidentally — to let Mr. Payne Croft 
see how enthusiastic was his own admiration of the 
13 * 


298 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


personal and mental gifts of Mr. Dell’s charming 
cousin, without giving the listener — that, ordinarily, 
most acute of personages — the least notion that 
he was, for once, being played with and speculated 
upon, and mentally overlooked, very much in his 
own fashion of dealing with other men. 

Archy thought once, though, that Mr. Payne Croft 
looked at him in a curiously interrogative manner, 
, which he could not understand ; and he began to 
draw in and to whisper to himself, he must he more 
cautious. But although the look returned again and 
again, and at last grew alike irritating and laugha- 
ble in its determinedly quizzical and tixed expression, 
it did not at all confirm Archy ’s first belief that the 
barrister was, conscious of self-exposure. On the 
contrary, he seemed bent on another kind of expo- 
sure — that of Archy. Suddenly the latter under- 
stood what it all meant, and could with difficulty 
repress a smile. Mr Payne Croft wanted to know 
whether he, Archy, had any special personal feelings 
at the bottom of all his avowed admiration for Miss 
Addersley ; and that was his way of getting at the 
fact. 

Archy, to set him at rest, observed — “ I perceive 
what you are thinking of; but you are mistaken.” 
He felt the colour mounting to his face and brow as 
he went on, “ Ho, it might have been as you suppose 
— but that before I saw Miss Addersley — ” 

“ You had seen some one else. I understand.” 
And Mr. Payne Croft busied himself for the next 
few minutes in cracking and picking walnuts which 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


299 


lie forgot to eat ; and curiously scanning the colour 
and transparency of the wine in his glass, which he 
held up to the light, hut did not drink. And from 
that time he became more and more absorbed. And 
Archy, remembering the programme of Mr. Payne 
Croft’s day that he had heard sketched out, guessed 
that as Mr Payne Croft had got all out of him that 
he could possibly desire, he would now be glad to 
get rid of him and proceed with the next item in the 
day’s business. So with a few earnest grateful 
words he took his leave. 

All the way home Archy revolved with a serious 
steadiness of purpose the offer that Mr. Dell had 
made to him. It was eminently attractive. He had 
no doubt he could make himself, in a year or two, a 
capital farmer. He w T as already an excellent bota- 
nist and geologist, and he had some smattering in 
chemistry. He was also familiar with all the new 
scientific theories that were just then revolutionizing 
the agricultural world, without feeling the least 
fanaticism in their favour. He knew well what ten- 
der handling the. old ways require, before breaking 
them to pieces to introduce new ones. He knew 
how constantly local knowledge, actual experience, 
and certain personal qualities, such as skill, tact, and 
industry, enabled men to make fortunes without 
being able to read one printed line in a book ; and 
how theoretical science, in the absence of these 
accompaniments, had sent many a gentleman farmer 
rapidly into the Gazette. On the w r hole, measuring 
himself as severely as he could, and trying to think 


300 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


at every step as though Mr. Dell’s interests alone 
were concerned, he came to the conclusion that he 
might accept the proposal, if he could be sure of 
himself in another direction — one indicated by the 
words — Mrs. Dell. He had told her he was cured. 
He still believed he was. He hoped with all his 
soul that he was. But he must look at things as 
they had been — at himself as he had been — and not 
pretend to deal with an unknown future. Love, or 
at least a certain susceptibility that might pass under 
that name, had led him into all his dangers : was it 
clear that it would lead him into no more? He 
could not answer that ; not, at least, quite satisfacto- 
rily to his conscience: and he felt, therefore, no 
security for the due performance of his regular 
duties, or, at least, for any vigorous practical 
efficiency in a business which required such weighty 
responsibilities. 

Yet, could he resign such a chance? Ought he to 
throw away the one only opportunity life might 
afford to enable him to do and to become all that he 
was fitted for ? He wished once he were married ; 
not as a man wishes for the realization of his most 
cherished desires, but as a thing that would be very 
useful if it were but once over and done with. Yes, 
if he had but a good wife ! A woman who might pos- 
sess what he lacked ; a steady, even temperament, a 
firm, immovable self-control ! But where was he to 
find such a wife ? A woman who should be at once 
beautiful — he must demand that condition — in love 
with him, and capable of inspiring him with love for 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


301 


her ? Pooh ! It was another dream ! He had done 
with dreams now. 

And did Jean — poor devoted Jean — never cross 
his mind during all these speculations? Yes, he 
thought of her frequently, but not with sufficient plea- 
sure, in connexion with these wanderings of his mind, 
to induce him to dwell upon the recollection. But as 
he drew nearer and nearer to his home, a sense of 
his neglect of Jean began to press unpleasantly upon 
him. He remembered first one thing then another, 
unnoticed at the time of their occurrence, which told 
him how wrapped he had been in the magic visions 
that perpetually hovered about Mrs. Dell, and how 
poor Jean had kept aloof from and avoided him in 
his daily visits to Bletchworth. But he really did love 
Jean, in a sort of brotherly domestic way ; and the cer- 
tainty of that love seemed in a measure to reassure 
him, and to suggest that he could not have been so 
ungrateful to her, as he more than once suspected he 
had been. 

In this state of mind he reached home ; he forgot 
there, for the instant, everything else in the one 
absorbing joy of meeting with his mother ; of see- 
ing her happy and thankful face glow with emotion, 
as she saw the expression of his features, and 
received him in her arms ; and of feeling her trem- 
ble, as he said, — 

“ Read, mother, read ! All is settled and Mrs. 
Cairn took the paper, with those strange-looking sig- 
natures upon it ; and she tried to make out the 
meaning, but could not. Or rather she knew it so 


302 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


well, that she wanted to be away by herself alone, 
and pour forth in silent prayer the inexpressible 
gratefulness of her soul, that this the blackest gloom 
that had ever crossed her path, was removed ; that 
her son was here again, pure in heart, unsullied in 
character. 

“ I can’t read very well now, without my glasses,” 
she said. “ What is it, Archy ? Don’t mind me 
now, I shall be better soon; tell me. iso fear of 
this blow, boy ! Oh, may God ever bless thee 1” 
And Archy — the paper still unread — fell on his 
knees before her, and his head dropped on her lap, 
and she took it between her hands, and leaned over 
it, and was happy — very, very happy, and very, 
very silent, for a long time. 

“ But, mother, you must hear the paper,” Archy 
said at last, in a low tone. 

“ Yery well! — my heart, boy, heard it long ago.” 
And then Archy read the document to her, and he 
explained to her how it had been obtained, avoiding, 
at first, instinctively, the less serious parts of the nar- 
rative. But by degrees he told her everything he 
could recollect, and he was delighted to perceive, 
that she was able to receive, and enjoy in her placid 
way, all the details of Mr. Payne Croft’s tentative 
sagacity and success. 

And when that intelligence was discussed and dis- 
missed, there was Mr. Dell’s offer of Norman-Mount 
Farm to be also made known, and some decision to 
be come to about it. Mrs. Cairn listened gravely, 
yet with a certain vivid interest, as though it raised 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 303 


at once a host of fears and hopes into conflict; but 
for the present she said little, beyond suggesting 
that Archy should stay away from the Hall for some 
days, while they considered what was best to be done. 
Archy was rather puzzled at the request, which, for 
certain reasons of his own, he did not like to inquire 
into too curiously ; so he consented, and then dis- 
patched a boy with a few hurried lines to Mr. Dell, 
inclosing the paper, which spoke in its own naked 
simplicity of the entire success of his journey. 

“ Archy, dear!” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

“ Do you consider the old engagement with Jean 
quite put an end to ?” 

“ Engagement, mother ? Surely that is a strong 
word.” 

“I understood it so. 

Archy was silent, and seemed inclined to go on 
with his tea in preference to the conversation. 

“ Perhaps you think lightly of that ?” 

“ Ho, mother, indeed I don’t ; but — ” 

“But what?” Again Archy was smitten with a 
desire to eat, or to appear to eat, and be silent. So 
he answered nothing, and Mrs. Cairn continued — 

“ Well, the time has come at all events for plain 
speaking.” Archy looked as though he regretted 
the circumstance deeply, but couldn’t help it, so 
asked for another cup of tea. But he was now to be 
startled out of all these little affectations of an indiffer- 
ence he did not feel; his mother effectually roused 
him by her next words — 


304 : 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“Do you know that it was Jean’s money that 
alone enabled me to seek you at Chatham? Jean’s 
money that I held ready for your discharge, and that 
it included her last shilling ?” 

“Her last shilling?” echoed Arcliy, who began 
dimly to understand alike what had passed, and 
what was coming. 

“ Yes ; for all her other savings had been pre- 
viously expended on me.” 

“ You, mother ! Is it possible ?” 

“It is true; and I must have starved or sought 
parish aid, but for Jean’s assistance !” Archy got 
up, and walked about the room in deep agitation ; 
but his mother’s voice followed his steps — 

“ I need not tell you how my own funds drained 
away from me.” 

“ Ho — no ! I understand now. Oh, mother, I had 
no thought that matters were so bad. But I might 
have had — I might have had.” 

“ But do you not ask me,” she continued, “ why 
it was that I should have allowed myself thus to pass 
under an obligation so serious ?” 

“ Ho, mother, I see it all now ! Fool that I have 
been ! 1 see it all now !” For a long while after 

that burst he sat moodily silent, answering only by 
monosyllables to any casual remarks made by Mrs. 
Cairn. She was glad to see him so impressed, though 
more uncertain about what the issue ought to be 
than she would have liked to acknowledge. She 
was the first to speak. 

“ Archy, don’t be miserable about it. It will be 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


305 


no boon to the poor girl to give her a husband who 
does not care for her.” 

“ But I do care for her ! I am very fond of Jean 
— I mean I think very highly of her, and have now 
more than ever reason to be grateful to her.” 

“ Yes ; but yon do not love her as women wish to 
be loved ?” 

u !No, mother, I fear not,” said Archy, in a melan- 
choly tone, that touched the mother’s sympathies. 

“ Well, then, we must find some way first to repay 
all we have had from her, and then hope for some 
further opportunity to testify in a better mode our 
mutual sense of the invaluable services she has ren- 
dered to us.” 

“ And you say you could not have come to Chat- 
ham but for Jean?” 

• 

“ Certainly not — at least not then. It was all her 
doing. She urged me, when I w T as unwilling, in my 
first anger against you ; although, perhaps, I should 
have sought you later.” 

“ Ah, yes, mother, you would have come, but you 
would have been too late. Don’t blame yourself for 
that — blame me. I was in a state that I dare not 
again recall. Poor Jean ! When did you see her 
last ? When will you see her again ?” 

“ I asked her to come over this evening, perhaps 
she may be here soon. But she is sensitive, boy, and 
proud in her way — aye, quite as proud as I have ever 
been. If you lose her you will lose one of the best 
of wives.” Archy answered nothing to that remark, 
but somehow could not help wondering whether, on 


306 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


the whole, he should be wise to give up the idea of 
Jean. He thought — perhaps he could make as good 
use as most men of “ one of the best of wives.” He 
began to wish to take a good look at Jean — have a 
good long talk with Jean, with the view of studying 
for himself, anew, whether his mother were right or 
wrong in her judgment. And he grew impatient, 
as hour after hour passed, and no Jean appeared. 
Once or twice he had serious thoughts of suggesting 
that a message might be sent to Bletcli worth ; but 
he fancied his mother might look at him and laugh, 
or say something that would have annoyed him 
excessively, if he did ; so he waited and wondered, 
and looked out of the window, and took peculiar 
interest in the garden and the surrounding prospect? 
and at last became almost savage in his temper as 
he saw that Jean did not — would not — come ! After 
a last fruitless visit to the garden, he relieved his 
feelings by exclaiming — 

“ I think, mother, Jean might have obliged you 
when you asked her.” 

“I think so too,” added the mother, “and espe- 
cially now that she must know through your letter 
to Mr. Dell that you have come home.” 

“ Oh,” thought Archy to himself, “ that’s the very 
reason she doesn’t come, I suppose. Much obliged 
to her !” — He began to light a candle, evidently pre- 
paring for bed, for it was between nine and ten, 
when he stopped and exclaimed with sudden anima- 
tion, “Why, there she is!” ran out, and returned 
with Jean, his face radiant with unaffected pleasure, 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


307 


hers trembling with fitful and secret emotion, which 
on the present occasion she did not need to disguise. 

“ Oh, Archy, I’m so glad.” 

Now Archy — what on earth possessed him to do 
such a thing ? — kissed her thin but glowing face, and 
tried to look at her after the process ; but she was too 
wise, or too secretly and sadly self-possessed, to allow 
it, and she got into immediate conversation with 
Mrs. Cairn, and presently was listening to all the 
details of Mr. Payne Croft’s strategy at Chatham. 

Both mother and son were secretly pleased that 
they discovered that Jean was able to stay with them 
for the night, though they also saw that that fact 
would not have oozed out for their own efforts 
and management. They sat late ; and, with two 
at least of the party, the time was spent enjoy- 
ingly. Archy studied as well as he could, by the 
individual specimen before him, the physiology and 
psychology of that somewhat attractive creature — 
“ one of the best of wives and he determined he 
would review carefully in his mind, before he went 
to sleep, in the solitude and silence of his chamber, 
the materials he had collected, and try to discover to 
what legitimate use they ought to be put. 

Whether or no he was illogically and wilfully 
anticipating some possible conclusion when he pre- 
pared again, at parting, to salute Jean, who shall 
say ? But Jean was on her guard, and warded off 
the threatened assault — he thought somewhat icily. 
The circumstance annoyed Archy; though for the 
life of him he could not discover whether it gave 


808 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


an improved or deteriorated aspect to his notions 
of “ one of the best of wives.” However, he went 
to bed, and thought himself to sleep. 

There was a summer-house in Mrs. Cairn’s gar- 
den, a little one, constructed by Archy’s own hand 
in years gone by. When he rose in the morning, 
with his thoughts beginning again just where they 
left off as he fell asleep, and still pointing to no satis- 
factory conclusion (for Mrs. Dell’s image kept steal- 
ing in among them, and while she stayed, investing 
as with a golden atmosphere his whole being ; and 
leaving behind, at her departure, a certain sense of 
desolateness in all his possible views of life), he fan- 
cied the fresh air might invigorate him and enable 
him to decide rightly, one way or the other, upon 
what must prove the turning-point of his future 
domestic career ; perhaps even of more than that, 
by its natural and inevitable consequences. So he 
strolled into the garden, and thence into the sum- 
mer-house, where he found Jean; who, always an 
early riser, had that morning been earlier than 
usual. She was fully dressed ; had even her bonnet 
on, and was writing a note. As she saw Arcliy, she 
passed the blotting paper over her half-written note, 
but then, by a strange impulse, took the note out 
and tore it up, saying — 

“I was just going. I promised to be back early 
at Bletchworth this morning if I did stay the night. 
I was writing a line to your mother.” 

Although there was not the remotest touch of 
coquetry in Jean (poor girl ! she would have shrunk 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


309 


witli disgust from herself at the thought of the hare 
possibility !) her conduct had, in every respect, all 
the effect upon Archy that the most refined craft of 
womanhood could have accomplished ; nay, it did 
more than any coquetry could have achived, because 
he wonld in one case have felt at least a touch of 
suspicion as to its truthfulness, while in the other 
suspicion was simply ridiculous — impossible. This 
intended departure of Jean — so hurriedly and so 
secretly — decided him. 

“ Jean,” said he, taking her hand, “ how will it 
be possible for my mother and me to repay you all 
we owe ?” 

“ Oh, pray say nothing about it. Don’t, please, 
don’t.” Jean spoke in evident distress. 

“Nay, but I must speak, Jean. Mother has told 
me all. There is but one return I can make you — 
a very inadequate one, I know, but my mother has 
set her heart upon it, and I have thought over the 
matter very carefully — as I am sure you would wish 
me to do, before — ” 

“ Pray let me go! You pain me more than I can 
express !” 

u Ah, Jean, you must hear me out. But why 
need I say more than this ? I offer you my hand — 
I ask you to be my wife !” 

“ Never ! never ! ” Jean exclaimed ; then bursting 
into a passion of tears she ran out of the summer- 
house, through the garden-gate, and disappeared 
behind the cottages, before he could recall his 
bewildered senses. 


310 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Jean refused him ! Why, he had thought only as 
to whether he would accept her ! He was now, for 
a moment, really angry — felt deeply humiliated. 
What did it all mean ? Had his mother been 
deceived all the while as to Jean’s feelings? Or 
did his own conscience begin to whisper, “ Had he 
played unwarrantably with the poor girl’s feelings, 
and forgotten what was due to her self-respect ?” 

At breakfast he told his mother all that had 
passed. She was at once pleased and sorry. She 
could not even yet resign the hope of a marriage 
that she fancied was so peculiarly calculated to 
insure her son’s welfare, and was therefore pleased 
to learn that Archy had seriously made Jean the 
offer; but she was sorry that he had done it so 
badly — though so naturally, in the existing state of 
his feelings ; and she was sorry to hear how deeply 
Jean had taken his conduct to heart. 

“ Well now, Archy, I have only this more to say to 
you, and I shall not again, if I can help it, return to 
the subject. You must not play with Jean or with 
yourself. If you really want to know my opinion 
as to whether, in spite of this behaviour, she does 
love yon, I will give it. I feel sure that she will 
never marry anybody else, even if she persist in 
refusing you. Why, where are you going? Break- 
fast’s ready.” 

“I shall follow Jean, and try to bring her back. 
If she refuse me I shall refuse the farm. I see now, 
as in a map, how the roads of life meet and inter- 
twine. I have been a conceited ass; that’s very 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


311 


plain, mother. But if it be not too late I will please 
you, Jean, and myself yet.” He was gone before 
Mrs. Cairn could make any comment. 

Jean had reached the gate leading from the com- 
mon into the lane which formed the approach to 
the Hall, when she heard behind her the sound of a 
horse galloping furiously. She turned and stared 
in amazement at Archy, who was the rider, and 
who pulled up the horse by her side, and leapt off, 
exclaiming — 

“ So, I have caught you ! But I had to unhorse 
the butcher’s boy to do it. I wonder what he’ll say 
when he gets time to reflect ?” 

Before Jean could determine what to do in this 
unexpected state of things, Archy had fastened the 
horse to the gate, put his arm in hers, and drawn 
her gently but irresistibly along, back towards the 
common, and by the same route she had but just 
passed over. 

“Jean, I am very foolish, very thoughtless in 
many matters, I know ; but don’t be harsh to me, 
don’t be unjust. I am not so bad a fellow, after all, 
as you think me. I am now going to tell you a 
secret; one that must never pass your lips. Will 
you promise me ? It is I, Archy, who ask you, for 
old affection’s sake.” 

Jean njurmured, half-unintelligibly, “ Yes, I pro- 
mise.” 

“Don’t be shocked. I have been in love with 
Mrs. Dell ! She discovered it, and told me so, 
instead of waiting till I told her. But, believe me, 


312 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


she would have waited a long while before I should 
have done that. Still, but for her sense and cou- 
rage, there is no telling how far things might have 
gone with me. She saved me. She cured me. 
Perhaps I love her still ; but if I do, it is in a way 
that I don’t think any one, not even her husband, 
not even my wife (should I ever find one who will 
have me), needs to quarrel with.” 

“ Oh, she is a sweet, and good, and true woman, 
Archy, and I don’t wonder at you or any man loving 
her, unless — ” 

“Ah yes, I understand your exception ; happily it 
doesn’t quite apply to me. I did not know she was 
married when I first saw her, one morning, from 
Norman’s Mount. I thought she was Miss Adders- 
ley.” Jean smiled at that. It was the first smile 
that had yet crossed the pale, thin, and now more 
than ever anxiously pre-occupied face. And she 
remarked, in explanation of the smile — 

“Miss Addersley is a very different woman to 
Mrs. Dell. She is kind, often personally considerate, 
very clever, accomplished, and brilliant ; but I don’t 
know how it is, my heart cannot warm to her, 
though she has been more than ordinarily attentive 
and liberal to me.” This remark, unexpected as it 
was, revived, and made Archy conscious of, certain 
dim instincts and presentiments that he had not 
cared to inquire into ; and it had the effect of 
increasing his respect for Jean’s intellect. 

“Well, but, Jean, please to come back — no, I 
don’t mean to the cottage, even though I am taking 


ARCHY BEGINS TO PAY HIS DEBTS. 


318 


you there to breakfast — I mean back to our conver- 
sation ; I should rather say to my confession. If I 
had not, with Mrs. Dell’s help, speedily righted 
myself, you may judge how I should have been 
punished when her husband offered to give me the 
management of Norman Mount Farm for a year or 
two for him, and then, if I succeeded, to receive me 
as his tenant afterwards ; letting me pay back the 
capital and interest as I found myself able.” 

u Did Mr. Dell offer that ?” inquired Jean, with 
sparkling eyes. 

“ lie did.” 

“ Oh, take it; I’m sure you will succeed.” 

“ So am I, if you will join me : and I am equally 
sure I shall fail if you refuse. Stay, and be silent, 
and don’t run away till you have heard all. I am 
resolved that I will not risk Mr. Dell’s property or 
accept his kindness, without giving him some sort 
ot hostage for my good behaviour. Jean, I am sure 
he’d take you !” 

Jean hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry, so 
tried both together. 

“ Now, Jean, you know all. You know my faults 
— my weaknesses — and you see what a poor sort of 
fellow you will have to deal with, and to take care 
of, and to guide. But, on my soul, I do believe 
you will , find me a good husband, if you are only 
patient with me ; and I am very sure I shall love 
you dearly, if you will only say — once for all — 
Arcliy, you may !” 

Poor — poor Jean ! what could she do ? The treach- 

14 


314 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


erous, wily assailant was attacking her in her weak- 
est point. She had been prepared for all but this. 
She trembled, and looked back; and Archy, see- 
ing that she did so, made her sit down on a little 
knoll, and he sat by her side ; and then, with gentle 
force, he got hold of her timid, nervous hand, and 
kissed it; and the great heart of the woman could 
bear no more ; but she turned, sobbing, and threw 
herself upon his breast, and kissed him. There was 
no need for her to say in any other language, 
“Archy, you may !” 


J* 


CHAPTER XXI Y. 

A SURPRISE AND AN INCONSISTENCY. 

There are few things more charming than such a 
day as one occasionally sees in October — genial and 
brilliant, with all the warmth and glow of summer, 
yet fresh and inspiriting as with the breath of a second 
spring ; and what is autumn but a foretaste and pro- 
mise of spring — a season which says to us, in its own 
eloquent but wordless language, “ though winter 
follow me it is to prepare for you the means of new 
enjoyments — to brace the thews and sinews that pro- 
longed sunshine is apt to relax — to remind you that 
happiness itself is not an end, but an accompaniment 
that God has graciously bestowed on mankind, while 
they fulfil the noble mission of development and duty 
He has assigned to them ?” 

It was on such a morning as this that Mr. Dell, soon 
after breakfast, sought the pretty little room next his 
own studio, which he had set apart for his wife’s use. 
He had furnished it completely to her taste, with 
busts, pictures, and flowers, one little round table and 
desk, one chair — a hint to visitors (himself included) 
that they had no business in that place — and a good . 
lock and key, which she took care to use. 


316 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ ‘ Sacred to the Muses !’ ought to be written up 
outside,” said Mr. Dell to his wife, as she admitted 
him in answer to his well-known tap. She smiled, 
but looked strangely weary as she did so ; and even 
while she stood talking to him, seemed instinctively 
to feel for the arm of her chair to support her. Mr. 
Dell looked at her, and she answered his look with a 
fresh attempt to smile, but to his great surprise she 
burst into tears, and said — • 

“ Don’t mind me ! It will go off soon. I have had 
a strange lassitude growing over me of late, and the 
more I struggle with it the more I seem to feel its 
power increase. Don’t mind me ! ’Twill soon go 
off.” 

“ Oh, I’ll tell you what it is, Winny ; you are using 
your brain too much, and your limbs too little. Nature 
is intolerant of any disturbance of her just balance. 
See what a nice morning it is ! Look out !” He 
opened the window, and she came and looked out on 
the fair landscape, now rich with autumnal tints ; she 
felt an arm circling about her, and her strength seemed 
to come with that loving, tender support. 

“ It is, indeed, an exquisite morning!” 

“ Yes ; come now, give me your version of its 
appearance. I have been trying hard to say some- 
thing to you on the subject that should make you 
smile at the bad poetry, if it failed to please you with 
the truthfulness of the description. But I can’t 
describe it in words. I think I could in water- 
colours.” 

“ Well, I was thinking a few minutes ago it looked 


A SURPRISE AND AN INCONSISTENCY. 317 


like a friend who has departed, and whom, in our 
great love, we had hurried after, and have brought 
forcibly back to feast with us yet once again, before we 
can resign ourselves to say, ‘ Gone ! gone utterly ! ’ ” 

“ True — you mean the summer ! Come then, let 
us go forth, and make this a day of high festival for 
his sake. If he has been brought back, I promise 
you he’ll have little time to spare in regaining his due 
place on the highway of the world !” 

“ Where shall we go ?” 

“ Oh, anywhere for a scamper first, and then on our 
way back let us go round by the farm, and see how 
the newly-married folks are getting on at Norman’s 
Mount. Do you. know, Winny, I have come over to 
your opinion now about that match, and think it will 
be a good one for both parties. I feared at first they 
would be uncongenial in tastes and dispositions. But 
I have grown wiser. She will worship him intellec- 
tually for knowing so tfiuch more than she does, and 
he’s a man and will like that ; while he will respect 
her, and be guided by her in all the more critical 
questions of life, because he perceives and appreciates 
her steady strength of character, and his own ten- 
dency to dangerous aberrations when left alone. 
Oh, they’ll do very well ! He’s skilful, intelligent, 
and scientific ; she’s careful, methodical, and the best 
house-manager I ever met with. Are you ready ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Winny gaily, and entering into 
the spirit of her husband’s desire for a day’s open 
air enjoyment. 

“ Yery well, then ; go to the porch, you’ll find 


818 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


George ready there with the horses, while I see if 
Grace feels inclined to accompany us. I did suggest 
it to her at breakfast, but she said nothing.” And 
Mr. Dell hurried off, whistling to his pups by way of 
warning to them of the meditated excursion. But he 
found that Grace had already dressed for the ride, and 
was waiting at the porch with Mrs. Dell when he got 
there. So they rode off, apparently a merry company. 

Their way through the lane — always an amusing 
part of their ride if .they were at all in a humour to 
enjoy it — was more than usually provocative of mirth 
to-day. The overhanging boughs, as Mr. Dell ob- 
served, insisted on taking toll as they passed from 
the very lips of the ladies, and he seemed satisfied 
with that explanation of their proximity, till, in a 
moment of forgetfulness, his own hat was suddenly 
knocked off by an envious black-looking branch- 
stump, and when he had recovered his hat and his 
seat, the ladies, moved by some frolic, had put spurs 
to their horses, and dashed along, in and out through 
the trees, along the winding road, at a pace that he 
could not help thinking dafigerous, even while he 
laughed enjoyingly at the spirit- that had prompted it. 

Away they went, through the great entrance gate, 
scattering the laburnum seeds like a shower about the 
roadway, and so on to the common, and out of Mr. 
Dell’s sight, until he too had passed the gate and 
beheld them far on, Mrs. Dell and the chestnut horse 
in front, and evidently the ringleaders in the rebellion. 
The harder he rode to getrup with them the more they 
spurred and galloped to keep ahead ; he got uneasy as 


A SURPRISE ANT) AN INCONSISTENCY. 


319 


he saw that, and moderated his pace, wondering how 
long they thus meant to keep him at so respectful but 
inconvenient a distance. But by degrees they allowed 
him to come up to them, both laughing heartily as he 
did so ; Mrs. Dell, who seemed physically inspired 
for the morning, looking so arch and roguish — so ripe 
for any and every kind of mischief, that Mr. Dell 
began seriously to entreat them to be more moderate, 
which conduct of his only made their mirth more loud 
and inextinguishable. 

But to his great relief they came to a hill, and they 
were all compelled to ascend it slowly. And though, 
as they reached the top, and saw a magnificent but 
dangerously steep road stretching far away before 
them, suggesting, “ Now then ! down as hard as you 
can go ! nothing to stop you for half-a-dozen miles !” 
— Mr. Dell was meditating laying violent hands on 
the bridle of his wife’s horse — she saw a different 
sight, and her thoughts wandered away in a very 
different direction to that of sweeping along the 
tempting declivity at the fullest speed of her horse. 
She saw all the hill slopes covered with oak, now 
wrapped in its truly regal robe, put on, as it were, by 
loving and loyal hands as a last token of acknowledg- 
ment of royalty, before king and subject alike prepare 
to deal with the nakedness and privations of a wintry 
and adverse time that they know is at hand. Win ny 
paused, let the reins drop unconsciously on her horse’s 
neck, and as he stooped his head to examine and 
enjoy the qualities of the fragrant flower-gemmed 
bank by his side, they fell over his neck unnoticed 


320 


T1JE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


by the fair rider, or by either of her companions. 
Minutes passed away of silent adoration of the fresh 
wildness, the tender loveliness, and the golden splen- 
dour that everywhere shut her in. “ Oh,” thought 
she, “ if one could really reproduce this so that 
the world should see and feel it as I feel it now, 
poetry were indeed divine I But no; even the very 
faculties that enjoy, and that seem ever yearning and 
struggling to penetrate beneath the exterior covering 
with which Nature veils herself, only delude them- 
selves, and find they were still but on the surface of 
things when they fancied they were descending to the 
depths. Oh, for a higher hand to take my hand ! — 
a touch upon my lips that might bid me speak ! — an 
opening of my eyes that might permit me truly to 
see !” 

While Winny was thus engrossed in thought — 
while Mr. Dell, in advance, was watching the display 
of dogs and red coats that appeared over the crest of 
a neighbouring hill, and opened out rapidly over the 
whole hill-side, and while Grace in the rear — her 
favourite place — was watching both, and patting play- 
fully the arching neck of her chestnut steed, he proudly 
responding with a dangerous upward toss of his head 
— a horn was suddenly and loudly blown just by Mrs. 
Dell’s horse. The animal started, reared ; and as Mr. 
Dell turned, hearing his wife scream, he saw her borne 
on madly towards him clinging to the mane, the reins 
now flying loosely in the air, now dropping about 
the horse’s feet and increasing the danger. In an 
instant he was off his own horse, and standing ready 


A SURPRISE AND AN INCONSISTENCY. 321 


to check, if possible, the runaway in his furious career. 
But the animal saw him, swerved aside, and being 
again met, turned, and dashed along towards the crest 
of the hill, the way they had come. Mr. Dell saw 
the reins flying. Will she not snatch them? No, 
no, she is too much alarmed ! She is engrossed by 
the more overpowering instinct and desire to retain 
simply her seat. Now ! again and again — oh, surely 
she might grasp at them ! But no, she does not ! and 
he gazed helplessly, hopelessly, expecting every instant 
to see horse and rider, through the sudden entangle- 
ment of the animal’s feet, rolling upon the ground ! 

Grace also saw, and was conscious that Mr. Dell 
watched her in impotent agony, asking her, asking 
himself, asking God, would she — could she save his 
wife ? 

People talk of the rapidity of thought experienced 
in drowning, and in other terrible emergencies, when 
all worldly interests, past, present, and future, are con- 
centrated into one brief point. Grace knew not what 
such talk meant. Thoughts and emotions, as with 
lightning flashes, now shot through the darkness of her 
mind — “ Knowing what I know, can I be so insane as 
to attempt to save her now ? Now that perfect success 
and certain oblivion may in a few moments be secured, 
why do I think of saving her? 0 God, how he 
appeals to me ! If I succeed, and risk my own life, 
can I undo the past ? Hesitate no longer ! It may 
be a mad impulse, inconsistent to the last degree, but 
I obey it. Perhaps we are both to die at once — I am 
willing ! ” These and hosts of other and similar 
14 * 


322 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


impressions, linked inextricably together, seeming to 
belong to the same moment of time, and to occupy 
simultaneously the same common space in her brain, 
yet with all the effect of due logical sequence, which 
was not for a moment lost — all these passed through 
Grace’s brain in the inconceivably short space of time 
which elapsed between the first consciousness of 
Winny’s danger and her loud energetic cry to her — 

“ Hold firm, Winny ! Hold firm, Winny ! You 
are safe ! He shall not pass. I am here ; your hus- 
band is close behind you.” Then forcing her own 
horse into the mid-way, she tried to stop Winny’s 
before it could get up to where she was, by her ges- 
tures and exclamations ; but the animal again shied 
off to the side without stopping, and was plunging 
past, when Grace made her horse leap right to his very 
head, and as her own horse’s feet touched the ground 
she made a desperate clutch at his mouth, and caught 
something — yes, it was the reins which she felt gliding 
through her hand, but which she held convulsively 
as she and Winny were now both carried away, side 
by side, but both still retaining their seats ; and never 
for an instant did Grace relax her hold of the two 
horses until, as the excitement calmed down, they 
were overtaken by Mr. Dell, who, with pale face and 
quivering lips, could only murmur, as he received his 
trembling wife in his arms, and kissed her — 

“Safe l J ’ 

“ Yes, yes ! But, oh, Grace ! Grace ! ” 

“ I cannot thank her — God will. He alone under- 
stands what misery she has saved me from to-day.” 


A SURPRISE AND AN INCONSISTENCY. 323 


Why does Grace turn away from the eyes that seek 
her so full of emotion ? 

“ You are not ill ? not hurt in any way? ” said Mr. 
Dell, as he took Grace from her horse, with scarcely 
less of tenderness than he had exhibited to his 
wife. 

“ 1 hope not ; a little shaken generally, and my arm 
pains me, that’s all.” 

“ Your arm ! Oh, surely not broken? ” 

“ Oh, no ; only a little sprained, I think.” 

“ Grace, repine not over it ; treat it as a scar received 
by a warrior in one of those battles that make a man 
famous at once and for ever.” And he sat down by 
her on the edge of the little grassy bank or pathway. 
Winny, who had wandered a little apart, first to offer 
up a lonely prayer, without which her soul could not 
rest, next to find a little pool of water, now returned 
with her handkerchief wetted at the corner. She 
found Grace still seated there, looking very pale and 
haggard, and Mr. Dell examining with anxious solici- 
tude the bared white, very white arm, and asking, as 
he felt about, if it was there, or there, till she winced 
and said, “Yes, that is the place.” Winny, coming 
up, would neither say nor do anything till she had 
tended the poor arm, by making her handkerchief into 
a bandage wet at one end, which she first rolled round 
the injured wrist, and then wound the dry portion 
over the other, and fastened it with a pin. Then, as 
she looked into Grace’s face, and saw the still increas- 
ing paleness and haggardness of expression, she mur- 
mured some unintelligible expression, and threw her 


324 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


arms about Grace’s neck and wept there, tears at once 
sweet and bitter — sweet, through the love and vene- 
ration she felt for Grace and for her heroic act ; bitter, 
for the pain she had by her own folly inflicted, and 
for the danger she had led them all into. 

Grace kissed her in reply, but with a certain cold- 
ness, and her heart heaved and panted so violently 
under Winny’s pressure that, after a while, she was 
obliged, with an almost impatient hand, to thrust the 
young wife back, who, however, like her husband, had 
but one explanation — “ Grace was more shaken than 
she would like to acknowledge ; they must get her 
home speedily.” 

Mr. Dell wished to persuade them to wait while he 
fetched some vehicle for their safer conveyance, but 
they would neither of them hear of any such cowardly 
proceedings. So Mr. Dell did the next best thing he 
could think of. After seeing them both carefully 
mounted, he pushed his horse a little in advance, and 
maintained a determined walk the whole way, while 
the two ladies followed — the hearts of both too full 
for converse, yet both filled so differently ! And in 
this sober, melancholy fashion, they returned through 
the lane which had some hours before witnessed their 
wild gambolling. 

“ How like life itself !” thought Winny. “Such is 
youth’s first going out — such is manhood’s late return- 
ing. Some of Us prudent and useless ; some of us 
erring and spared ; some conquering and maimed ; all 
sad and sorry, and all beginning to think how sweet 
were rest !” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 

The “ shadow” began to lie heavily now upon Grace, 
and to extinguish by slow and insensible, but certain 
degrees, every bit of light or smile upon her face, 
which she had so long and determinedly maintained 
there by sheer force of will. Whether it was that 
the effort had grown too painful, the aim too remote 
or uncertain, or that she had found some unexpected 
obstacle within her own nature which at once baffled 
her understanding and paralysed her strength, certain 
it is she moved about now utterly unlike her former 
self, careless of appearances — self-wrapped, yet start- 
ing now and then as if drawn back to sudden and 
intense consciousness of the presence and possible 
oversight of others. 

The more she reflected upon the impulse that had 
led her to make so determined an effort to save Mrs. 
Dell, and which had been so successful, the more she 
was surprised. She might have easily persuaded her- 
self, if she had been one of that class who encourage 
all profitable self-deceptions, and try so hard to 
believe them true that they sometimes succeed — that 
she had only then put the finish to a masterly system 


326 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


of policy, one that left Mr. and Mrs. Dell in deeper 
belief than ever of her truthfulness and devotion to 
them both, that promised therefore in various ways to 
promote her ultimate ends, and to throw into eternal 
oblivion any dangerous agencies that she might have 
evoked. But she never did knowingly deceive her- 
self. She was too strong, proud, and self-reliant, too 
naturally independent, not to be always willing to 
look truth in the face ; liking it because it was truth, 
or because she ought to like it, was quite another 
matter. She knew quite well, that if she had then 
been herself — her ordinary self — she would have 
played a very different game, one indeed that might 
have brought matters for her to a brief, and, probably, 
in the long run, triumphant issue. Was there then 
some other “ self” in her that she yet knew not ? — a 
part of lier nature that did not resign itself to a half 
passionate, half- wilful love for another woman’s hus- 
band, and to an ambition that must sweep to its 
desires, no matter bow remorselessly ? 

At first she laughed inwardly at the thought of 
such a possibility; but that thought — like a living 
creature that would neither be driven away by scorn 
nor violence — returned, and challenged her again and 
again to talk to it, cope with it, and master it — if 
she could: and she began to perceive, with terror, 
that she was no longer what she had always previously 
felt herself to be — supreme mistress of her own 
destiny — queen over that little but by no means insig- 
nificant domain, the body and soul of Grace Ad- 
dersley. 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 327 


And now she became conscious of a strcr ^ fact 
which also had a startling influence upo^' aer imagi- 
nation. She had fretted secretly at the slow lapse of 
time during the last few months, and felt at intervals 
almost frenzied by the apparently unprogressive and 
uneventful character of the life at Bletchworth ; 
uneventful, at least, as regarded her plans and wishes. 
But, now, since the discovery of the unsubstantial 
nature of the expectations she had based on Archy’s 
character and position, and since the memorable 
period of her visit to Grey Ghost Walk, where she 
first gave loose to her tumultuous passions, and 
allowed them to carry her — whither she dared not 
now to reflect upon — since that day there seemed to 
her to have begun, as though suspended impatiently 
till then, a sort of general and sudden movement 
through all existence ; and that she, as a part of it, 
and half its dread author, was now to be the sport of 
powers she knew nothing of; powers whose opera- 
tions or purport she could not even dimly divine. It 
would have been impossible for any worldly contin- 
gencies to have been more truly appalling to Grace 
Addersley than this kind of ignorance and fear. It 
was like an earthquake playing beneath her feet. 
She could not be sure, wherever she moved, that she 
was treading on one single inch of solid ground. She 
tried to strengthen herself by hate of the one, to 
quicken her perceptions by love of the other, of the 
two persons whose images were always with her; but 
the effort was fruitless, and the only visible result was 
the constant deepening of the surrounding shadow. 


328 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


A* this moment a new incident roused her, as well 
it migtiL, mto new activity and speculation. As she 
came into the breakfast-room one cold morning in 
November, and found, to her relief, that Mrs. Dell, 
whose languor increased visibly, was breakfasting for 
once in bed, Mr. Dell gave the fire a stir with the 
poker, and said to her, in his usual cheery manner, 
though not with the old glad ring of the voice — 

“ Come nearer the fire, Grace: I have news for you.” 

“ For me?” 

“Yes; prepare for a surprise.” Grace internally 
shivered, desiring no more surprises : but she replied 
as calmly as she could — 

“ What is it?” 

“ A letter from Payne Croft. Can you guess what 
it’s about ?” 

“No.” 

“Oh, yes, you can — you must, I said a letter — I 
should have said three letters : one to me, one to your 
mother. Ha ! I see, Grace, you understand now to 
whom the third is addressed. There it is. Read it — 
I won’t look at you — while I pour out the coffee.” 

Grace took the proffered letter, read it calmly 
through, and was giving it back to Mr. Dell, but that 
he laughed. 

“ Me ! I don’t want it. ’Tisn’t mine ! Come, that’s 
a good joke !” Grace smiled, and put the letter down 
on the table with an indifferent air, and began her 
breakfast. 

“ Well, what shall you do?” 

“ Refuse.” 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 329 


“Not, I "hope, without reflection. Do you know 
anything of the gentleman’s character or prospects ?” 

“ Very little.” 

“ Then let me try to enlighten you. lie is already 
the second in actual position on the Western circuit, 
and universally acknowledged, by his brother barris- 
ters, as certain soon to be the first. But it is rather 
in the character of the man, than in his present for- 
tunes, that I should look for the knowledge of his 
future destiny. To say nothing, then, of his intellec- 
tual skill and subtlety, or of his legal knowledge, 
which he is ever feeding night and day, he possesses 
a will that almost does what we are told to believe 
faith can do — remove mountains. He is one of those 
men who never go back. He is intensely but silently 
ambitious. No amount of drudgery appals him ; I 
rather think that the very excess of it has the same 
effect in stimulating his imagination, and drawing him 
on, that the sight of a particularly fine day has upon 
a lover of external nature — he looks and longs, and 
at last finds it altogether irresistible.” Again Grace 
6miled, and there was visible in her face a growing 
attention, which induced Mr. Dell to go on between 
the sips of his coffee, and during the buttering of his 
dry toast. 

“ Payne Croft’s career is as plainly to be seen before- 
hand as any man’s I ever heard of. He is never 
what I should call really eloquent, but he possesses 
sufficient fluency and vigour to give the notion of 
eloquence to all his set speeches, and that notion is 
precisely what our practical English minds like best. 


330 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Oh, yes, he must succeed. Barrister, Queen’s Counsel, 
Attorney, and Solicitor-General, Judge, possibly Lord 
Chancellor.” 

“You really think so?” exclaimed Grace, now at 
last blushing with excitement. 

“ I do, indeed 1 Anyhow he will — must rise ; and 
his wife may certainly calculate on a public life of no 
ordinary consequence and splendour.” 

Seeing that Grace^was now silent and deeply medi- 
tative, Mr. Dell added, “If now you will take my 
advice, you will consider deeply before you answer 
his letter. He is not a man to repeat his offer.” 

“ Offer! It is not an offer.” 

“ Of course not, in absolute terms — not yet. But 
if you allow him to come here, as he wishes, and per- 
mit him, as he phrases it, 1 to enjoy the pleasure of 
your society for a few days,’ I know him and you too 
well not to be quite sure that he will desire to extend 
the pleasure for the whole of his mortal days.” 

“ Thank you, cousin.” Then Grace rose, saying — 

“ I will do as you recommend me ; but I think this 
letter should not remain unanswered, even for a sin- 
gle post.” 

“No, clearly not.” 

“ There will then be but little time. Shall I find 
you in the studio by and by ?” 

“ Yes.” And Grace, taking up the letter, walked 
slowly away, while Mr. Dell called after, in a low but 
significant voice, “Don’t forget the Lord Chancellor.” 
****** 

“ So then,” thought Grace, as she walked about in 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 331 


the solitude of her own room — glad to know that not 
even Jean’s shrewd, prying eyes were any longer near 
her — “ so, at last, another places before me all that I 
had hoped he would have given me. More than all 
— for I should have had to urge him on. This man 
needs no urging ; and his success, doubtless, will be 
the greater. 

“ Is it possible ? Yes — -the steps look all feasible — 
he is a rising barrister — will soon, it is expected, be 
the first in the circuit; then the silk gown — political 
office — -judicial office — all, all within the reach of any 
true man who is fit for all, after he has once put his 
foot firmly upon the rung of the ladder I 

“Ah, why did I not know him earlier! Yet, 
should I have cared for him, as I have cared for — ? 
I think not. It is the profit — the honour of success I 
covet, not the nature that wins success. Fool ! incon- 
sistent again ! Why did I not discover that philoso- 
phy before it was too late !” Here Grace looked 
round as though the very sound of the words “ too 
late!” in her own soul — for she had not otherwise 
pronounced them — might be. startling other ears than 
her own. But she was in no danger. She soon 
relapsed into her secret and solitary self-communion. 
“Why did not this happen a few weeks ago — before 
— before!” Grace paused in her walk, and leaned 
against the wall, either to hide the light from her 
eyes, or to cool her burning head against the cold 
surface. Presently she started away, and walked 
rapidly, fanning voluntarily her growing fury, and 
muttering to herself — 


832 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Yes, too late!— too late! for that now! I will 
succeed ! I will not be foiled ! I have paid the price 
— the prize shall be my own. Mine! Mine!” The 
strong hands were nervously clenched, and rose in the 
air almost above her head, as she said this. Then 
suddenly the fingers were loosened and were rapidly 
passed over her brow, as if to throw aside her hair, 
or to hurry out of the way some real or fancied impe- 
diment that prevented clear, satisfying vision. 

“Yes — yes; I see all now. Fool that I was to 
shrink back at my own shadow, to hesitate before the 
evidence- of my own success ! This makes him surer 
than ever mine, when — ” Grace said no more, even 
to herself. It was a habit of hers to stop the instant 
anything like decision could be arrived at ; she knew, 
without Hamlet's example or instruction, how apt is 
the instinct for action to get “ sickbed o’er with the 
pale cast of thought,” if it once listens at the wrong 
time, or for an unnecessary moment. 

She now sat down to all the routine of a most 
elaborate toilet; and, while she was thus engaged, 
smiled as her eye fell upon Mr. Payne Croft’s letter. 
Then she looked rather slowly and anxiously at her 
face in the mirror, and became aware that it had 
undergone a change for the worse ; but that was a 
fact to be dealt with, and humoured or conquered as 
the case might admit. So without useless repining, 
and without waste of time in impossible undertakings, 
she did her best, with some little aid from art that I 
don’t profess to understand except by its results, to 
recover the semblance, at least, of her original and 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 333 


queenly beauty, and not till she bad finished and 
satisfied herself with what she saw in the glass, did 
she write the answer to Mr. Payne Croft’s letter. 
That answer occupied but little time, and there was 
not the least pause or hesitation in any way about the 
process, until it was written upon a thick rose-tinted 
paper, and sealed with the most delicate of green 
wax, bearing the impress of a signet, the motto of 
which was — “Fidelity.” But as she looked at the 
motto, she held the letter in her fingers doubtfully, 
looked up once or twice, still in deliberation, then 
smiled, and prepared to let it go, merely remarking 
to herself aloud, as if in explanation, “ He knows I 
have no other seal in ordinary use !” 

Grace then took both the letters in her hand, and. 
went radiant with recovered beauty, and as it almost 
seemed re-established health, to Mr. Dell in the studio. 
He was lying on the sofa, apparently buried in 
thought, not having even his usually inseparable 
companion — a book. Grace saw he looked very 
melancholy; but he jumped up at the sight of her 
made her take his place, and smiled inquisitively as 
he took the letter to Mr. Payne Croft from her out- 
stretched hand. He was then about to open it, but 
she touched his fingers to stay him, saying — 

“ Before you read it, cousin, let me ask you one 
question very earnestly : — if the moral responsibility 
of this affair rested with you, and you only ; if it were 
you who had to say to yourself what I have now to 
say to myself — ‘ Ought I to encourage the addresses of 
a man for whom I have no love, but who could give 


334 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


me what I acknowledge I have often desired — worldly 
success ’ — ” 

“ Well, but, Grace, give him the chance. Perhaps 
you may love him by and by.” 

“Never!” Grace looked steadily at Mr. Dell’s 
face as she said this, and he looked at hers, struck by 
the peculiar, almost reproachful tone. Old associa- 
tions that he had utterly forgotten, or remembered 
only in the most abstract sort of way, shot up, and 
kindled the colour in his face, and then he saw a far 
deeper suffusion in Grace’s face answering his ; and 
he dropped his eyes, and said to himself — “Poor 
Payne Croft ! I understand now ! There’s an end 
then to your suit.” Grace, with her cheek glowing 
to a rosier and lovelier hue every instant, again spoke, 
though with a certain downcast air and timid voice — 

“You would not as an honest man advise me, who 
am, I hope, an honest woman, to answer this letter 
other than as I have answered it?” And Mr. Dell 
opened the letter, and read the elegantly expressed 
refusal, which, without suggesting to a stranger like 
Mr. Payne Croft the least notion of Grace’s own his- 
tory and motives, would certainly make him believe 
that it must be some pre-engagement on her part that 
dictated her -refusal, since the tone of the letter was 
so very cordial and respectful towards him personally, 
Mr. Dell read in silence, folded the note, and replaced 
it in the envelope, then glanced at the motto, which 
seemed to be still less calculated to encourage him to 
speech, and at last he handed the letter back to Grace, 
with the observation — 


PAYNE CROFT IN A CAUSE OF HIS OWN. 


335 


“ I suppose, then, it must be so — but for your sake 
I can’t resist a kind of sorrow.” 

“ Nor I a kind of gladness, cousin, that comes over 
me to know it is done and gone ! There ! it is in the 
post-bag, and irrevocable.” 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 

Early snow lies upon the ground ; early, for it is 
yet only the beginning of December, and the first 
fall around Bletchworth generally takes place after 
Christmas. Mr. Dell stands at his dressing-table, 
and, as he looks cut upon the landscape, so prema- 
turely wintry, begins to speculate upon some mystic 
tie between the life of nature and his own life ; for 
he, a young man, is beginning to grow grey with 
anxiety, and, as his soul looks forward, more and 
more cheerless does it find the prospect. Yet he 
scarcely dares to look back, for the contrast between 
what was and what is — between what he anticipated 
and what he has found — is too terrible, and enhances 
a thousand fold the intensity of present suffering. 

His wife, since the shock she received by the run- 
ning away of her horse, is growing daily more and 
more feeble. He feels that in spite of all he can do, 
by the ten derest care and watchfulness, and by the 
most absolute self-abnegation to check the insidious 
malady — whatever it may be — in spite of alKdiis 
wrestling with, and yearnings to deny the fact, he 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 


337 


feels that his efforts are faifing. Never, by any 
chance, does he let her see the shadow upon his face, 
or hear the least touch of fear or repining on his 
tongue. He is called upon at last to show whatever 
of manliness there may be in him, and he nobly 
responds. There is nothing that he could not do or 
suffer to save that one dear life, so precious to him ; 
and he is conscious that, if he can save it, it will be 
only by heroic self-denial and unfailing self-control 
upon his part. 

But he is mistaken in thinking Winny does not 
detect, by a thousand subtle affinities of thought and 
instinct, what is passing in his breast. And if she 
could have experienced a deeper, a higher, or a holier 
affection for him than before, she would have felt it 
now. She tries her very utmost to respond to his 
cheering, brusque voice, his genial smile (which, how- 
ever, he dares not let her eye rest on too long, unless 
she is really kindled by it), his merry laugh (which 
he shrinks from himself the moment he hears it, and 
wonders how it must affect her), his quips and jests, 
and pretended fits of anger — she takes all this in 
seeming belief of its reality, and so the end is, in a 
measure, gained : both are combining to keep off to 
the last possible moment, trusting still to avert the 
fatal hour when they must together acknowledge the 
impending doom. Oh, loving and faithful hearts ! 
ye would turn hypocrisy itself into an almost sublime 
virtue. * 

But Mr. Dell will no longer be content with all 
these instinctive efforts that his love and his general 
15 


338 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


knowledge of life have suggested. Unwilling as he 
has been to overpower her reluctance to seek other 
advice, while there was the least probability of suc- 
cess by their own unaided efforts, he now determines 
there shall be no more delay — something must and 
shall be done, and the only question is how to gain 
her free consent and earnest co-operation ; both of 
which he feels are indispensable to success. The 
great difficulty is, that he must now indirectly own 
to her what a kindly deceiver he has been. He 
dreads, with almost mortal fear, meeting the ghosts 
of his own bold assurances to her the instant he 
allows the words to escape from him — “ Winnv, you 
must do this, or there may be danger.” 

But Mr. Dell is a man who never really postpones 
action when he believes it a duty to act ; who would 
never, for instance, with all his self-indulgence, put 
off inevitable pain with a weak desire to inflict it on 
the to-morrow, in order simply to spare to-day. He 
determines, therefore, to speak to Winny now, before 
dinner ; and he goes slowly to her room, shaping out 
as he goes the things he will say, and the limits 
within which he will speak. He finds her sitting on 
a chair at the window, and leaning on the curved end 
of a little sofa, looking on the snow-covered lawn, or 
at the equally snowy mountainous blocks in the sky, 
which are slowly and majestically sailing through the 
blue depths of the atmosphere. She has placed a 
little cushion at her back to relieve her weary, sensi- 
tive frame ; but in no other respect does her husband 
perceive, for the moment, any evidence of her suffer- 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 


339 


ing and debility. She sits fixed, motionless, buried 
in reverie, and does not even hear him enter — a 
sound that is always the first to penetrate through 
her ears, and to awaken her heart, however they may 
be closed for the time to worldly impressions. He 
does not like — in truth, he is afraid — to trust himself 
to listen to anything she may happen, in her sup- 
posed solitude, to say. He still clings to hope so 
vividly, yet so feverishly, that he is alike alarmed 
and impatient with himself if there is the least sug- 
gestion of a word or a fact that might dispute the 
basis of his hope. He has a kind of fear that she 
may say something to open to both, and while both 
are thus together (so that there can be no longer any 
kindly or wise illusion possible between them), the 
vista that he knows both are dreading to look into. 
But he is unwilling to disturb her. It is just possible 
she may, even in that attitude, have fallen asleep, and 
so be obtaining a relief from the ever-craving rest- 
lessness which is destroying her. But Winny is not 
asleep ; and presently he hears her say, in tones so 
low that none but himself could at once hear them 
and understand their meaning — 

“ To live poetry ! yes, surely the time will come 
when that will be the only aim of the great ones of 
the earth ! After all, how feeble is the writing of 
poetry in the comparison ! To round one’s life like 
a true poem ; to make it march to rhythm, as though 
we kept time to unseen angel-feet by our side ; to fill 
it with music, and with everything else that is most 
sweet, true, loving, grand, and progressive; to make 


340 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


it overflow with its own garnered wealth, yet know 
that the smallest part into which it is possible to 
divide that wealth, each whispers to us, ‘ Forget not 
the incalculable treasures left behind where you found 
me;’ to make it shun, with a glorious disdain, all 
that is intrinsically commonplace, sordid, or mean, 
while taking ever-increasing delight in tending, ad- 
vancing, and making more beautiful the simple, the 
necessary, the domestic, and the familiar ; a life like 
our day, visibly springing from, and going to, inef- 
fable glory ; waking, like the day, at the challenge 
of sunrise, to a noble rivalry in duty; sleeping at 
night with sunset in all the conqueror’s purple and 
gold, in guerdon of the conquests achieved over real 
difficulties, in token of the triumph that belongs to 
those who leave the earth as they rest better than 
they found it when they rose ! Ah, yes, to live such 
poetry ! to show to a slowly awakening, but at last 
roused and grateful brotherhood, that the eternal 
instincts are the only eternal truths — the links of the 
electric chain on which God’s own finger seems ever 
to rest — and that when these instincts fail us, or turn 
against us, it must be because we have first neglected 
them, turned against, and outraged them; that our 
worst troubles, individual or social, are those of our 
own making, and will be cured whenever we reso- 
lutely determine they shall be so; that our social 
deformities are at once our crime and punishment; 
our eternal struggles against each other the penalty 
for not struggling -with each other, side by side, to 
overthrow the barriers of ignorance and selfishness, 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 


341 


which alone divide the great family from its won- 
drous inheritance, its promised land, its golden age, 
of which the foretaste only was given in the past — 
like the rainbow spanning the storm — to give promise 
for the future. This were, indeed, not only to live 
poetry, but all that poetry can ever grasp in its wide- 
embracing arms, even when yearning with its whole 
soul for one moment of passionate communion, 
though knowing that, in the next, it must let the 
angel go, as Jacob did.” 

“ Nay, but, Winny,” said Mr. Dell, advancing, yet 
so gently, and with such an admonitory sign from his 
finger to her to be still, that she might not have time 
to be startled, “ why not live poetry and write it, 
too? You can’t place your poet, when he does thus 
live as well as write, upon a pedestal, as you may 
your Simon Stylites, and call the world to witness 
and to imitate. The press, Winny, the press — there 
is your poet pedestal; and books are, in their way, not 
only an agreeable but a substantial world, as Words- 
worth, I think, calls them. But in this I agree with 
you, that the poet should not shut himself up in his 
four-walled room, and think that there alone he can 
solve the problem of his own life, or the problem of 
the greater life to which his own serves but as the 
key-note — that of Humanity ! You meant that, did 
you not ?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ If not, I shall say you were simply finding an 
ingenious excuse with which to meet me, when I 
asked for the morning’s work, eh ?” And Mr. Dell 


342 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


smiled his usual smile, but felt it dying out as he 
remembered the business upon which he had come. 

“ Sit here, Winny,” he said — and he took her by 
the hand, while the other glided round her waist, and 
supported her, with the gentlest possible clasp, to the 
sofa — “ I want to have a little talk with you ; and 
you know you are at once so very shrewd, and so 
very straightforward, that if I don’t blurt out at once 
all I have to say, you not only punish me by antici- 
pating, but by making things worse than they are.” 
Winny took his hand, kissed it, and turned away in 
deep silence. 

“Well, now, darling, tell me, why don’t you go 
out ? ” 

“I will, if you wish me.” 

“ I know that, but I see you never do it unless I 
wish ; and when you are about the business you 
make me always regret I said anything on the sub- 
ject.” 

“ Do I? Forgive me — but — but all exertion seems 
a pain to me — walking peculiarly so.” 

“ Then why not ride and let me lead your horse ?” 

“ I felt worse the last time we did so.” 

“ And you never sing now. Try.” 

“ Oh, dearest, tears come if I do try — not words.” 
And the tears came then, as though the very word 
were an irresistible signal of command which they 
must obey. 

“Let them come ; let then flow forth, at their own 
will. Lean here, darling, and weep away all this 
gathered sadness and gloom. There! There! There! 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 


343 


We have been much too wise, much too knowing; 
have been altogether much too confident in our self- 
conceit; have had too much faith, God forgive me! 
in our tricks to impose upon each other. I renounce 
them henceforth. Yes, we’ve done with all that now. 
There! There! Lookup! Fear nothing jet. We 
have done no wrong. The heavenly depths still encir- 
cle us ; God has not died out of this world, or left it 
to its own blind ways ! Oh, we of little faith ! Come, 
come — cheer thee. We will, we must shake off this 
inexplicable weight — this gloom — this atheistic despair. 
Suppose we go to London for a while ? I will take 
you to one of the most skilful physicians I can find ; 
let us hear what he says.” Winny slightly shook her 
head, without otherwise moving it from where it lay 
on his breast. And so he tried a different course. 

“Will you then, dearest, tell me yourself, in full 
frankness of soul, what you think may be, or know 
must be the matter with you ? ” 

There was no answer for a long time. And the 
husband rested his own head on the dear head below, 
and tried to hush the throbbings of his own half-des- 
perate, half-frantic heart, before he again addressed 
her. And that silence and position seemed to bring 
a kind of peace to both of them ; and he seemed to 
understand without another word being said, that she 
intended to say something to him soon. After another 
pause he whispered therefore to her softly — 

“ Now, Winny ! ” And she pressed his J^and, which 
lay in hers, and seemed still reluctant, yet still making 
no sign of refusal. At last, with a deep sigh, she 


344 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


rose, and then, strange to say, a faint colour appeared 
on her face as Mr. Dell caught a side view of it, for 
she did not look at him, but took his hand, and led 
him across the corridor towards their, bed-room, and 
he thought, at first, she was going there, perhaps to 
pray with him, before venturing to say — O God ! 
with what anguish he thought of the possibility of 
what she might have to say, thus prefaced ! But no ; 
it was not to their bed-chamber she went; but to a 
little dressing-room adjoining it, belonging to her, and 
which he remembered now to have noticed that she 
always kept locked. As they went in he caught an- 
other glimpse of her countenance, and he saw what 
was decidedly a rosy hue, struggling with the pallor 
beneath, and new hope sprang into life in his soul at 
the sight, and wonderfully comforted him. 

She led him to an antique looking walnut cabinet, 
a kind of personal present from him to her, for it was 
a great favourite with him, and used to stand in his 
studio ; but seeing, not long after their marriage, his 
wife’s great interest in it (for it was full of curious, out- 
of-the-way places, secret drawers, and, as he said, pro- 
bably untold-of wealth, hidden away never to be dis- 
covered, unless by some genius inventive as the maker’s 
or her own), he caused it to be removed to her dress- 
ing-room, during her first moments of pleased sur- 
prise, and he demanded a kiss by way of purchase- 
money. He remembered all this now, and it was to 
this cabinet* she had led the way. She took out 
(rather confusedly) from her pocket her bunch of 
keys, and began to try to unlock the doors ; but the 


A SILVER LINING TO THE CLOUD. 


345 


key was tapped uselessly against the key -hole so many 
times by the tremulous little hand, that Mr. Dell took 
it from her, and opened the cabinet himself. His first 
glance told him — what, however, he had already 
divined — the secret his wife revealed so unwillingly, 
and yet not altogether without a kind of sweet wo- 
manly satisfaction mantling in her modest blushing 
face. There were displayed on a large shelf, all sorts 
of tiny, fairy-like fabrics in dress, and in every pos- 
sible variety of delicate texture — cambric, silk, and 
satin — some of them possessing hues that almost out- 
rivalled the purest and most exquisite colours of the 
floral world, in roseate pinks and cerulean blues, min- 
gled with dove-like greys and snowy whites, passing 
off into ethereal lace, which seemed to be the foam, or 
the crown — the atmosphere or the flower of all. 
And they were all obviously for some important yet 
diminutive little bit of humanity ; all these charming 
structures, which the fond mother had worked at in 
secret, and hoarded also in secret, and which she had 
come daily to look at alone — these smallest of caps, 
these prettiest of hoods — while wishing that the eyes 
of yet one other person (one only of all the tenants of 
the globe) might share the secret spectacle. And Mr. 
Dell saw it with an emotion and delight he dared not 
attempt to express, though his first impulse was to 
think of the effect of the scene upon her. And he 
tried once more to conduct and disperse the threaten- 
ing heart-storm ; for though it would not be necessa- 
rily one of pain, or danger in itself, it might become 
both by mere excess of emotion ; and the innocent 


346 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


jest was ready upon his very lips, but it was swept 
off, forgotten in an instant, as his wife turned, and 
threw herself into his arms, saying — 

“ Oh, dearest, perhaps it is because I do not take 
from God as he alone will give it, an increase of our 
blessings, that I have so suffered, been so miserable, 
so — so ungrateful ! ” 

Whether Mr. Dell agreed or not, he cared not even 
to ask himself that day. For a few hours there was 
a kind of holy sunshine through all the place. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


GREY GHOST WALK. 

That night Mrs. Dell found, as usual, she could 
not sleep, but was nevertheless conscious of a great 
relief and change. It was not now the restlessness of 
the body, betokening pain and danger, that troubled 
her, but the activity of her mind, which seemed sud- 
denly released from its bodily fetters, and at once 
strengthened and impelled by its long gathering — 
because unused — force. The wind was raging in 
tumultuous fury without ; the neighbouring trees were 
swaying and creaking and labouring with their vain 
protests against the ceaseless disturbance to which 
they were subject ; window sashes were clamouring 
in every bed-room to the sleepers to awaken before 
they were blown out of their very beds; and once* 
Winny thought she heard the roll of thunder, and she 
had a sort of fancy that all Nature heard it too, and 
paused like herself for confirmation, so suddenly 
hushed did everything become. 

There was work in hand outside, and Winny felt 
there might be work to do inside, and that the one 
would stimulate and intensify the other. There was 


348 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


a something in the sounds of elemental warfare that 
always stirred her as Sir Philip Sydney seems to have 
been stirred by the sound of a trumpet. It was 
indeed to her, as to him, a sort of call to arms ; though 
she had not his difficulty in choosing between sword 
and pen, and which Fortune ended by making him 
equally illustrious with both. 

Again and again she tried, on account of her fear 
of disturbing her husband, to repress this irregular 
and inconvenient evidence of the activity of the 
instinct that called her back to her poetical labours. 
But Mr. Dell was enjoying, under the new hope she 
had given him, the first night of sound placid sleep he 
had known for some time ; and she was glad alike for 
his sake and for her own, that it was so. She got up 
very softly, feeling her way about the room with a 
sensitive, unerring touch — for she would not light a 
candle — and so dressed herself without the least 
noise. It was very cold ; and she put on an extra 
dressing-gown, comforting herself with the reflection 
that she could easily light the fire in her own little 
room. She was just about to open the door, when a 
violent crash, as of a branch broken from a treej 
caused her to go to the window ; and when there, her 
attention was drawn to a light in Grace’s room, which 
surprised her, for the time was very late — at least an 
hour beyond midnight. Winny looked with a vague 
wish that her eyes could penetrate through the white 
blind, and see what Grace was doing just then. She 
had felt recently a strong and growing impression that 
Grace was secretly unhappy. She could not trace 


GREY GHOST WALK. 


349 


this idea to any period anterior to the accident with 
the runaway horse ; and she could not understand 
why that accident should have stirred in Grace any 
other emotions than it had produced in herself and 
Mr. Dell, namely, increased affection and sympathy ; 
unless, indeed, the shock had produced some more 
serious physical injury than they were aware of. But 
the mere remembrances, at such a time as this, of 
Grace’s courage and self-devotion, inspired in Winny 
the desire to go to her, speak to her, comfort her if 
she really needed comfort. With a sigh at the sacri- 
fice of her previous intention — for she fancied the 
stream of poetic thought was welling up to the surface 
of her soul, wooing her by its freshness and sparkling 
beauty to come and drink of the living waters — she 
went in the opposite direction, with a little coiled wax 
taper in her hand, along the corridor towards Grace’s 
room, which was at some distance. Let me leave her 
thus on her way, and look, in advance, into Grace’s 
solitary chamber. 

A tall, rigidly upright figure moves there, as in a 
trance, or as in sleep ; yet her eyes are open- though 
fixed in a kind of blank stare. She has just risen 
from bed, and stands now in her white night-dress, 
irresolute, as if listening to the storm, or as if expect- 
ing some signal. She takes a dressing-gown from the 
high peg on which it is hung, and puts it on. Her little 
taper, in a silver candlestick, is already lighted. She 
takes it up, and with no other covering, opens the 
external door leading to the winding stone steps, and 
descends. The light is instantly blown out by the 


350 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


wind, and her long hair flies abroad in a thousand 
filmy lines, but she heeds it not. She pauses on one 
stair, and seems to hold the rayless candle to it, while 
she murmurs — 

“Yes, it is still there. How very like. Strange! 
Should I find a secret hidden beneath if I were to 
search ? Hidden by some one who would trust to 
nothing less than stone to keep it down ? ” 

She crosses in the old track, below the cedars. She 
shrinks not from the cold — though the snow is pressing 
in upon her bare feet, and filling with sloppy moisture 
her velvet slippers, trimmed with a kind of snow of 
their own, the swansdown fur. Neither do the wild 
blasts make her pause, she does not even notice them, 
they are sweeping her hair madly to and fro, and at 
times making it lash her face as with a whip. On she 
goes, along the avenue, and down towards the spot 
where lie buried the mutilated remains of the portrait of 
Mrs. Dell. Notwithstanding the darkness, she fastens 
upon the very tuft : no snow has fallen there, it is so 
overshadowed by trees. She takes the tuft gently up, 
and puts it aside, to be again replaced by and by ; and 
then she feels for the bits of card, and as her quest is 
successful, she exclaims in the same unearthly voice as 
before — 

“ Yes, yes, quite safe! and I maybe at ease now ! Oh, 
for the long deep sleep that I may now welcome at last !” 

Then there was a heavy, painful sigh ; and she sat 
down in the old spot and appeared to ruminate. It 
was a considerable time before she again spoke, and 
the tone was strangely low and muffled : — 


GREY GHOST WALK. 


351 


“No, no hurry ; beware of that ! No circumstance 
forgotten — no accident unprovided for. A sufficient 
cause for every phenomenon. Who will then say 
there is danger ? ‘Idle word ! There is no danger for 
the soul that is true to itself. No, there must be no 
discovery possible — no trace left behind to guide the 
tracking sleuth-hounds of justice to their prey ! And 
then when all is prepared, look yet again and again — 
take care — that no single link or member, however 
apparently worthless or insignificant, be missing. Aye, 
then strike ! Soft. It is done. Come away. No 
second touch. The blow needs no repetition. Come 
away. Destroy now all vestiges of the particu- 
lar instrument ! Leave the deadly miner to work 
unseen — unsuspected — below life’s citadel. Come 
away — before it falls in ruins. See, as yet he leaves 
all outwardly fair and strong ; but the hour of ven- 
geance draws nigh — and there will be a sudden sink- 
ing of the foundations, a despairing cry — a world 
peopled by one sand-grain of life the less, and enriched 
by one pretty ideal ruin the more. 

“ But why did I save her when her own folly might 
have sealed her fate, and wrapped all else in impene- 
trable darkness ? Ah ! have we all our weak points 
— and through them is the unseen messenger bidden 
to strike ? Let me consider. This were a case now 
for a casuist. Had she then died, no one could say it 
was I who had let loose the sacred fount of life ; my 
previous act must thus have passed into oblivion — 
nothingness. Why should I not myself have wisely 
forgotten all but the result ; and, innocent in that, 


352 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


have profited by it in peace ? But she did not die ; 
they say I saved her life. Then if she does die now 
— and if here, midway between earth and heaven, a 
solemn inquest of angels be held updn her body — and 
methinks some great clamour is being raised all about 
my ears — may I not avow defiantly, ‘ She owed that 
life to met I took it — whether before or after the 
just debt accrued, what matters now!’ 

“ How fair she will look ! why do I always see her 
thus stretched on the low bier — and why can I never 
by any art or will of mine drive that constant smile 
from her face ? ’Tis that which troubles me. ’Twill 
not let me sleep. Smiles ? What, and knows all ? 
Ho, no ; hush ! I will not tell her as I intended to 
tell. Rest, fair one, in peace ; there shall be no 
triumph over thy grave. I change and shift strangely. 
Hadst thou lived, perhaps !” 

Here she again heaved a low, long, labouring sigh, 
still finding in it no relief. 

“ How hard grows my pillow, night by night. I 
will again lie down now. These busy thoughts must 
be answered at their own time. Well, no more talk : 
they are answered. ’Twill be daylight soon. Let it 
not look in upon me to take me at disadvantage while 
I sleep — to hear me, perhaps, murmur in bad dreams. 
Yes, close the curtains. Hot you ! O God, not — not 
you !” 

Lulled, perhaps, by the wind, and half-frozen with 
the cold, she leaned back with her hand on her elbow, 
and seemed to be, in her thoughts, composing herself 
to rest on her bed. 


GREY GIIOST WALK. 


353 


When Mrs. Dell had nearly reached Grace’s room, 
she could see no light beneath the door, as she knew 
she must have seen if one had been burning within. 
Had Grace then gone to bed? Most likely. She 
stopped, thought of her little room, and the work 
which she coveted, and was about to retrace her 
steps, when the door slammed violently against its 
frame, and the noise was followed by the slamming to 
of another door beyond, which was evidently open to 
the external air, and was admitting a gust of bitter 
sleety wind which seemed to freeze Winny to the very 
marrow. But all physical suffering was forgotten in 
the alarming thoughts — “ What meant those open 
doors? Where was Grace?” Winny opened the 
door from the corridor and went in, guarding the 
taper carefully the while. She passed to the bed; 
it was empty, but had been recently occupied, for it 
was not quite cold. She put down her taper on the 
dressing-table, and went to the other door — the one 
opening upon the external staircase— and peered into 
the wild black darkness, but could see nothing, except 
the funereal-looking plumes of the cedars, waving, in 
strange significance, their heavy, shadow-like branches. 
She listened, but it was impossible to hear anything ; 
even a cry as dreadful as the one she half-anticipated 
would suddenly issue from the ground could scarcely 
have reached her during all that hurly-burly of the 
elements. She shrank back into the room, shivering 
with the deadly cold, and oppressed by the deadly 
fear that possessed her ; a fear, however, to which she 
could give no definite form or name. 


354 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


She put on some additional clothing, hastily 
obtained from Grace’s wardrobe, and sat down, with 
her old feeling of exhaustion upon her, by the dress- 
ing-table, to think what she should do. She was 
spared the responsibility of a decision, for the door 
opened, and in stalked that tall figure, the face of a 
ghastly, bluish-white, the teeth chattering, but still 
with the open eyes exhibiting the same blank uncon- 
sciousness. For the moment Winny did not under- 
stand the state in which Grace was, and her soul was 
filled with supernatural dread, as she saw that face 
turn towards hers without the least sign of recognition 
— those eyes pass over her, eyes unseeing, nay, as 
though there were nothing in all creation that could 
make itself visible to them just then. But soon she 
began dimly to remember what she had heard of per- 
sons walking in their sleep ; and she instinctively 
divined one part, at least, of the secret before her — 
that the busy anxious brain had in some way overleapt 
itself, and was suffering for the outrages it had inflicted 
upon its physical framework. 

“ How should she wake her ? Might not any 
attempt at direct interference make matters worse ?” 
Winny could not tell. The case was beyond her 
experience. On the whole, she thought it best to 
watch her awhile in silence, and be guided by the 
first gleam of light that might be vouchsafed. 

Grace seemed about to go to bed, but stopped, 
murmuring, and at first Winny could not hear 
distinctly what she said. But she saw her go to her 
garments, and look for something uneasily among 


GREY GHOST WALK. 


355 


them, that she did not appear to be able to 
find. 

“ Not here ! I could not have left that behind 
me ! No, no. Oh, it is safe. As though I could 
lose that!” And there seemed to be a kind of low 
laugh, but Winny could not be sure if the faint sound 
really signified what she supposed. But she saw — 
with dilating eyes — what it was that had been missed, 
and found ; it was the portrait of Mr. Dell ; and she 
heard, with an emotion that threatened to unfit her 
for the calm observation she had resolved upon, the 
murmured words that now broke forth — 

“ Had I not .the right to love thee, before thou 
knewest another? Blame me not, then, if I love 
thee still ! Cruel ! Could I weigh, as in a balance, 
the respective measures of our affection, and say to 
thee, 1 Dost thou love me as thy cousin only ? Alas ! 
I bear to thee the love of a wife !’ Could I say that? 
— and yet not saying it — have I indeed lost thee for 
ever! Well, well, well — to sleep, and to forgetful- 
ness ! Cold ! cold ! and oh, how weary !” 

Winny thought now she would venture an experi- 
ment, in the hope of getting her to bed. She would 
.try whether by a certain approximation to her, in tone 
of voice and manner, it would be possible to enter 
into relations with and influence her without breaking 
the sleep. So she said— guarding against the least 
suddenness — and in a tone at once as indifferent and 
as dreamy as she could assume — 

“ Come, Grace, let me put you to bed !” But she 
knew not what frightened sentinels were still on 


356 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


guard, though for a moment overcome, within that 
conscience-smitten brain; nor what cause they or 
their mistress had for the fearful watch they ever 
strove occasionally to keep up ! Winny saw — while 
she held her breath in suspense — a change come over 
the frame. The rigidity relaxed, and was succeeded 
by tremours and shivering ; tears slowly rolled down ; 
the hands in half unconsciousness were wrung as 
with secret anguish ; spasm followed spasm, as though 
the very foundations of life would break up before 
relief came; then sighs, more tears, and a sudden 
lifting and animating of the whole frame — and Grace 
was awake. She looked round in the deepest horror, 
saying to herself, while still unaware of the presence 
of Mrs. Dell — 

“ 0 my God ! What is this ? Where have I 
been ?” 

“ Grace !” And Grace heard, and turned, and 
glared, as with the eyes of some wild animal, raised 
by a spear-touch from its sleep ; and then she dropped 
her eyes, and half turned away, and the blood swelled 
in those wrist-veins, and the strong, beautiful, but 
dangerous hands, quivered as with an instinct that 
could not be resisted ; and voices were heard, though 
by her only, whispering, “ She has listened to you in 
your sleep ! If she goes away alive you are lost I” 
And Grace bent her head, and glanced furtively 
about, as if to learn if there were stirrers about, or 
neighbouring sounds ; and she drew herself together, 
as for a spring — but no — she resists, she suddenly 
knots her arms upon her breast, drops her head, and 


GREY GHOST WALK. 


357 


gives way to the long pent up agony and distress, in 
hysterical laughter. 

“ Grace ! dearest !” 

“ Touch me not ! No, no ; I did not mean that. 
But you have surprised me — you have been listening?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you dare to tell me so!” Again there was 
danger in those blood-shot orbs ; but Mrs. Dell either 
knew it not, or cared not for it. She answered 
simply, with an earnestness that attested her truth — 

“ Let me tell you all I know — all I have heard. I 
saw a light burning in your room, and being restless 
myself, thought- that I, that is, that we might comfort 
one another. You were not here when I came, but 
you returned just now through the door.” Grace 
heard and began to understand her dreams. 

“ But that is not all?” 

“ No, I have learnt this instant that you have loved 
• — perhaps still love — my husband 1” 

“And—” 

“ No, that is all.” 

“ And you — now ?” 

“ Have no fear either of him or of you.” 

“You mean — ?” 

“ To keep your secret, if— if — ” 

“ If what ?” 

“ If you will only love me as well as you love 
him.” And Winny, waiting for no answer, threw 
her arms about Grace’s neck, and cried over her, 
though herself so much younger, as a mother might 
cry over some supposed lost one regained in peace 


358 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and honour. Grace did not respond, though the 
heavings of her heart seemed to Winny to give all 
the answer she desired. 

“Kiss me I” at last murmured Winny; and she 
put up her quivering lips, for she had dropped on 
her knees by Grace, and now felt as though the 
child and mother had exchanged, and taken more 
natural places. But Grace started up wildly, and 
exclaimed in hurried accents — 

“ Go — go to bed. You will suffer for this, and I 
too ?” 

“ Not till I have seen you in bed first.” 

Grace looked at her — took hold of both her hands, 
and held her with a painful grip at arm’s length, 
as though she would understand at once the mystery 
of the strong, loving, immovable soul in that feeble 
frame. V All the instincts (or what she had been 
accustomed to believe to be instincts) of hatred, seemed 
to have rallied and concentrated for that one look; 
and to demand but some kind of food, or signal, 
or sign of answering malice, to run riot upon the 
prey ; but the deep blue eyes, though moist with 
tears, were bright, open, shining, and full of love; 
and the black host, under their black banner, turned 
sullenly away, and left the hopeless, helpless, heart- 
broken commander to capitulate or surrender, as she 
pleased. Winny felt the grasp relax; then she 
trembled herself with the motion imparted to her by 
Grace’s palsied limbs; and at last she heard, to 
her surprise, in strangely broken hollow tones, the 
question — 


GREY GHOST WALK. 


359 


“ If I have wronged you — can you forgive ?” ' 
“Oh, Grace, that I had but something to forgive 
you, that you might be sure of it !” 

“ But do you ? See — I am not well, and scarcely 
know what I am doing. Perhaps a few hours hence 
we may laugh at all this!” Then Grace knelt, with 
a kind of passionate wilfulness, before Winny, making 
her sit the while, by holding her hands, and keeping 
her down on the chair. “ Speak ! Do you forgive 
me ? Don’t play with the words ! God help us, we 
do sometimes play strangely with words — and with 
— other things — and find out too late, it is ourselves 
who have been the victims of the sport. Do you ?” 
she demanded, almost fiercely, for the third time. 

“ I do — God knows I do, with all my heart and 
soul, if indeed there is aught — ” 

“ It is very cold, is it not ?” asked Grace, inter- 
rupting her with a feeble, almost wailing voice. 

“Yes, yes; now then into bed! Oh, Grace, and 
you have been out in such a night as this with 
nothing on but your dressing-gown over your night- 
dress! And your feet — never was ice, surely, so 
cold !” 

“ Aye, but never mind, Winny ; are we not all 
accurately compensated? Put your hand here — 
here, child, upon my brow. There’s heat enough 
there, I think. Your touch is soft. It soothes me 
strangely. I feel as though I should sleep now. 
Winny, if one fancied one might never wake again, 
do you think one might then ask a blessing for an- 
other, without having any right to it for oneself?” 


360 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


Wmny thought she referred to Mr. Dell, and kissed 
her, as the best answer in full that she could give. 
But she added — 

“ Yes, we will both join in that blessing.” 

11 Winny, kiss me once more. I wonder if angels 
laugh or cry at your simplicity. Good night.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


AFTER THE STORM. 

At Mrs. Dell’s departure, Grace, who had appeared 
to be asleep, rose half up in her bed, leaning on her 
arm, and listened to the footfall as it died away in the 
distance. Then she got out of bed, locked and tried 
the fwo doors, went to a superb-looking Indian dress- 
ing-box, and removed one part after another, until 
she uncovered a secret chamber, cut out of the thick- 
ness of the wooden bottom, and which was by various 
contrivances so perfectly concealed, that not even the 
most acute or experienced observer could have de- 
tected it either by eye, ear, or touch. She took from 
thence an exceeding flat glass vial, and poured from 
it some drops into a wine-glass, and added water to 
fill up the glass. She then replaced everything as it 
was before in the dressing-case (and which, be it 
observed, she had been accustomed at times to leave 
ostentatiously open), then returned to bed, placing 
the glass within reach of her hand on a little ledge 
of the wood-work of her room, hidden by the drapery 
of the bed. She murmured as she again lay down — 
“ Even were this discovered, it would reveal no- 
16 


362 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


thing^would even mislead or guard me. If I am 
not better soon, I shall be much worse. Yes, there 
will probably be fever — delirium — self-abandonment 
— utter-exposure 1 What I was only beginning to- 
night, and have just escaped, will then be finely con- 
summated ! No, no, that shall never be ; I will die 
mistress of my secret, if of nothing else. They may 
spare me that knowledge. 

“ I will, however, wait awhile. I do not think I 
shall again so far lose myself as not to be capable of 
drinking this in time ; and if I do drink it, and they 
find me — what this will leave me — they will grieve, 
and both think they know and can pity the cause. 
And as to what they may find afterwards — more 
nearly touching themselves — why should I disquiet 
myself about it ? The life saved and the life struck 
at made an even balance ; what if I now throw my 
own life into the scale besides ? But I am weary of 
thinking and speculating. 

“ Ah, well I may be ! I did not reckon upon this. 
What ! are not even the waking hours of actual life, 
and the dreaming hours of actual sleep, full enough 
of separate torture for me, body and soul, but they 
must combine together into some new, monstrous, 
and most horrible shape, belonging to neither waking 
nor sleeping life, and inflict upon me all this intole- 
rable misery and despair ! I know, I know. Oh, 
you need teach me no more how utterly weak and 
worthless I am ! How given up as prey to I know 
not what petty demons, who are too cowardly to meet 
me in the open light, yet too resistless in their own 


AFTER THE STORM. 


363 


peculiar warfare, when they attack me under the 
shield of sleep. Oh me ! I can never again willingly 
trust myself to my one sole worldly refuge — not even 
to sleep ! that constant goal to each day’s dreadful 
journey. Oh me ! sleep does not even abandon me 
— no, she treacherously woos me to destruction ! But 
if there remain yet one spark of courage or strength 
in my soul, I will conquer this miserable traitor-body 
— it shall obey me. No more sleep-walking, if I 
never sleep again ! no more revelations, even if these 
drops be the cost of silence. 

“ But I think I shall sleep now. I know not what 
angel or devil possesses her that she can thus influ- 
ence me — body and soul ! Though *the one raged 
against her, the other grew calm under her touch. I 
feel even now overpowered. All, I think, is safe. 
Yes, no one can enter, till they waken and warn 
me ” Grace slept. 

And whether it was the natural force of that almost 
unconquerable will — unconquerable while attacked 
only by the weapons it understood and was prepared 
for, or some inner strength springing from critical 
change, and giving new hope — that kept off the 
dreaded fever and delirium, and produced simply a 
slight immediate illness, Grace knew not when she 
waked late in the day ; but she knew she was better, 
and for a moment the feeling checked the inexpressi- 
ble dreariness and anguish of soul with which she 
always now met the first beams of morning, and it 
even caused a kind of partial restoration of her old 
spirits and vigor, as she was able to understand it, 


364 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


measure it, and, in a kind of dull way, enjoy it, while 
moving about in her chamber during the operations 
of dressing. 

But this mood was presently succeeded by another, 
out of which grew peculiar * anxiety and hesitation, 
which exhibited itself in her aimless and fitful ges- 
tures and wanderings. Some thought seemed press- 
ing itself upon her, even to be almost forcibly moving 
her lips, and it even drew her once to the side of the 
bed, and seemed to be urging her to kneel there ; but 
she would not — she could not. 

“ No, no,” she at last cried out passionately, though 
not loudly — the feeling seemed too deep for that — 
“ No more hypocrisy !” 

Then there came a soft tap at the door. Grace 
heard, raised herself to her full height, touched her 
eyes, shook off, so it seemed, the abstracted mood, 
and then, with her old graceful sedateness, went to 
the door and quietly opened it. Mrs. Dell entered 
with an anxious look, changing quickly to a smile, as 
she saw Grace already dressed, and looking so much 
better than she had expected, though her features 
were strangely pinched and pale. Grace understood, 
and answered her with a half smile, having in it, how- 
ever, an unusual tinge of melancholy — 

“ Yes, I am better. And you ?” 

“ Oh, much better. I think we dispersed, when 
we seemed only to be wantonly seeking storms last 
night.” Grace faintly murmured something which 
did not reach Mrs. Dell’s ear, and then was silent. 

“ Come, then, we two will breakfast together this 


AFTER THE STORM. 


365 


morning,” gaily exclaimed Winny ; “ my husband 
has long since gone to work, and your mother, five 
minutes ago, was deep in a new novel, and sitting by 
a tremendous fire in her dnn room. Come, I will see 
all ready for us.” And she timidly approached 
Grace, clasped her arms round her neck, and kissed 
her, as she added — 

“ Now be quick, for I really want my breakfast. 
It is so late.” Grace watched her departure, but 
utterly forgot the injunction. The old mood returned 
with increased agony. 

“ Oh, what shall I do ?” was her despairing, heart- 
stricken cry, and the hands were tossed wildly in the 
air, and wrung in a bitterness of agony and remorse 
that only such strong natures can feel. “Oh, what 
shall I do?” was repeated in almost a child’s tone of 
pleading and despair. Then there was much pacing 
to and fro, then a sudden stop, and a sinking upon the 
floor in an almost lifeless heap, as though body and 
soul were dropping prematurely and simultaneously 
to a common and shapeless ruin. This again was 
succeeded by a revival, a deep and protracted self- 
communion, a slow rising once more to the feet to go 
and lock the door, then a spectre-like gliding towards 
the bed, and at last a clasp of the hands above the 
head in irresistible grief and remorse, and a collapse, 
rather than a voluntary bending, of the knees, and 
lo ! she was kneeling, and broken, sobbing tones were 
rising towards Him who alone then could see and 
hear her — 

“ Not for myself, 0 God ! not for myself, but for 


366 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


f 


her ! If thou wilt save her do as thou pleasest with 
me ! ” No more words were uttered, though the 
heart was probably doing its best to say much more, 
in a kind of despairing hope that the Divine Heart 
would sympathize, even if the Divine Justice con- 
demned and punished. And the head gradually 
dropped on the hands upon the white counterpane, 
and the whole figure remained for some minutes im- 
movable in that attitude which it had found so 
hard to assume, and now found still harder to quit. 

Again came the soft tap at the door, and the soft, 
sweet, though now reproachful smile ; but it was 
answered by one of scarcely less tender or hopeful 
expression. All that breakfast-time they talked on 
topics long forgotten, while shutting out those which 
had been but too recently depressing them. Winny, 
among other gossip, tried to amuse Grace with some 
little domestic matters, out of which she was herself 
extracting some real enjoyment. But beyond the 
general fact that it related to some conversation with 
Megg} 7- , and was calculated to trouble Cook, Grace 
did not know or care, even while she revelled in the 
sound of the happy voice of the narrator. And so 
they chatted on, and it seemed to both that the break- 
fast would never end ; it seemed to both that they felt 
as though they wished it never might end. 

Winny could not but look and wonder at the new 
and startling, though fitful signs of life, freshness, 
and buoyancy, that perpetually burst up through the 
melancholy shadow that overhung Grace ; while the 
latter, on her part, kept saying to herself, as she 


AFTER TIIE STORM. 


367 


noticed how much of Winny’s lassitude had disap- 
peared — 

“ She will live, she will live ! It is no fable, then ? 
Does He listen to the prayers of a penitent? Oh, 
my God ! my God ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


god’s mercy and god’s justice. 

There is a bard lesson to be learned, and one that 
even energetic and logical natures often shrink from 
in their tenderness of soul towards themselves, some- 
times even when that tenderness is called forth by the 
sufferings of others. Mark, how little it is they ask 
in their unexpressed involuntary appeal ! 11 Set aside, 

O Father, thy immutable law, which is but another 
word for thy felt — but in its operation, unseen — will, 
and govern man as he governs himself, capriciously I 
Make cause and effect no longer intrinsically one; 
give them at least an occasional divorce ! Oh, give 
us grapes from these convenient thorns ! Hot justice, 
we ask, but mercy I ” Alas, how can even Omnipo- 
tence itself answer such appeals, if Justice and Mercy 
be in heaven exactly the same ? From our five or 
six feet human pedestal, we range in fancied power 
over the universe of things, deeming we see all — 
understand all- — that is essentially necessary to us as 
the preliminaries of correct judgment ; and, so pre- 
pared, to this phenomenon we attach lovingly the 
name — Mercy; to that sbrinkingly the word — Jus- 


god’s mercy and god's justice. 


369 


tice ; unconscious that all the while we are merely 
bringing down to our own paltry level His sublime 
code, when we should be acknowledging our igno- 
rance, humbly seeking enlightenment, and going on 
perpetually striving to rise to the height which that 
code, by its very existence, shows us we were born to 
aspire to. 

Yes, this is a hard lesson to learn, as Grace now 
finds. Probably it would become a still harder one 
for humanity at large, if she, and such as she, could 
succeed in changing it to their own wishes, even when 
those wishes cease to be selfish. Grace has had one 
first gleam of sunshine, which, perhaps, was not an 
emanation of that Divine pity, which we know, 
through the Saviour’s own lips, is felt for even the 
worst of sinners. Justice but Pity, Pity but Justice; 
or to substitute the larger attributes to which they 
belong, Truth and Love — these are the golden wheels 
on which rolls the eternal chariot. But Grace will 
know no more the brightness or the genial glow ! The 
clouds are gathering resistlessly, never again to leave 
her until the end. 

For, like herself, Mrs. Dell has experienced only a 
brief but delicious moment of relief and re-action, to 
break the depressing monotony of her recent physical 
state. The sunny brightness was as delusive as the 
last flickering of the fire before its extinction. Ere 
many days had passed, Winny was lying through the 
whole weary, weary period, from sunrise to nightfall, 
on the sofa ; and receiving regular (instead of, as 
before, merely occasional) visits from the Doctor. 

16 * 


370 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


That gentleman pronounced her case to be one of 
naturally low physical energy, further complicated by 
a vital shock from the accident with the horse ; and, 
above all, made chiefly dangerous by the promise of 
maternity. On the other hand, he thought, that if 
only the critical period indicated by the last-named 
point of danger could be safely passed through, she 
would rally, and be in better health than she had 
ever been. He could not say there was nothing dan- 
gerous in the case, but it was to him perfectly simple 
— oh, perfectly simple ! he assured them ; and all 
they could do was to keep her quiet, very quiet, in 
mind and body, and wait. 

Grace heard these sentences. A little while before, 
when all men and agencies were but, to her fancied 
supremacy, merely so many automata, she would 
have said to herself — “ Exactly ! just what I expected 
you to say — intended you should say I How well 
the puppet works ! ” But now the Doctor’s words fell 
like the fingers of a spectre upon her throat, crying 
to her — Ha 1 and thou thoughtest to escape me ! But 
she would not dwell on the words — she strove hard 
not to dwell on them now that there was at least 
a duty to be performed ; and she found or created a 
kind of heroism of soul ready for her difficult task. 
She must hope on, having no hope ; smile on while 
her heart was breaking ; keep up to the latest possi- 
ble moment, in Mrs. Dell’s thoughts, the idea that she 
believed she would recover: that was now the sole 
chance of recovery. One thing, at least, she would 
make Mrs. Dell understand —that she, Grace, looked 


god’s mercy and god’s justice. 


371 


■upon her own life as involved in the dread issue, 
though she dared not intimafe the nature of the solu- 
tion that was eternally tempting her acceptance. 

And thus several days passed on, Mr. Dell content- 
ing himself a little longer, under the assurance of the 
Doctor, that it was really impossible to do more than 
he was doing; and, persuaded to inaction by the 
entreaties of his wife that he would not leave her, 
even for a few hours, as he had proposed, in order to 
go to London to consult some eminent medical man. 
She was equally urgent with him not to bring any 
stranger down : “ He would only add to her distress,” 
she said. 

“ Wait, wait,” she continued. “ Perhaps all will 
yet be well.” And he waited, though misgivingly, 
understanding, as he believed, her hope. 

On the last day that week — a day that nearly all in 
the house had forgotten to connect with its usual con- 
comitants of gladness — Christmas Eve — the Doctor, 
after bidding Mrs. Dell a good morning as usual, and 
wishing her the compliments of the season, seemed to 
be rather struck with something in her pulse, or in 
her look, or her answers ; for while he kept up — good 
and kindly though positive man that he was ! — a 
cheery tone to Mrs. Dell until he had fairly got out 
of her sight, he then hastily stopped one of the ser- 
vants, and asked if she would request Miss Addersley 
to step down to him ; he would wait for her there in 
the little parlour in the hall. 

The message was doubtless fearful enough to come 
from such a man, and to be sent to that particular 


372 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


woman. But the effect was not the same that it would 
have been a few weeks before. Every drop of blood, 
it is true, left the already pallid cheek and brow, and 
the knees quaked, and the flesh crept ; but still it was 
not the personal fear of discovery and punishment 
that was now producing this alarm, it was that Grace 
had divined the coming fiat — “ She will die ! ” 

She hurried down to satisfy herself as quickly as 
she might, whether that were the truth ; and to con- 
sider, if so, what further work, if any, might remain 
for her on this side the grave. She came in hurriedly ? 
anxiously, but inquiringly ; and with looks so full of 
the natural feelings that the Doctor expected there, 
that they would of themselves have allayed any 
slight suspicion, if such a thing had entered his mind. 
But he had no such thought. After some kindly pre- 
face, he said — 

“ I fear I must break to you sad intelligence. No, 
no ! ” he exclaimed, seeing Grace clasp her hands 
across her knees, and drop on a chair struggling to 
moderate the anguish of that moment of full and 
fatal conviction ; “I don’t mean to say there is abso- 
lutely no hope. But I do think it possible she might 
go off suddenly in a few hours. Her husband, there- 
fore, ought to know. It might be a comfort to him 
to call in some one else. I thought j^ou might, per- 
haps, prepare him better than I could.” Grace only 
waved her arms in a kind of frantic resistance to the 
idea. So he continued, “Yes, it is very sad — so 
young, so fair a creature ! And, I am told, one so 
richly endowed by nature.” 


god’s mercy and god’s justice. 


373 


“ I — I will tell him,” said Grace, with a kind of 
spasmodic energy, and desiring at any cost to get rid 
of the Doctor, whose every word inflicted upon her 
the most exquisite pain. 

“ That will be best. I will be on the watch day 
and night. If I am not at home I will leave word 
where your messenger can find me in a very few 
minutes. And I will borrow his horse, if my own is 
knocked up, or out of the way at the instant. Pray 
keep up your own spirits, for he may sadly need you. 
I fear he will ! Indeed, Miss Addersley — it is too late 
to delude you with false hopes — I am sure oftit.” 

IV 





CHAPTER XXX. 


THE LAST DREAMER AWAKENED. 

Mr. Dell had not noticed the change in the Doctor’s 
face and manner ; for, in accordance with his usual 
custom, he went away when the Doctor came, in 
order to leave him alone with his patient, and then 
meet him at his departure to learn what he thought 
as to his wife’s state. He was very restless, and find- 
ing the Doctor longer than he expected in coming to 
him in the antique-room, where he was accustomed 
to wait, he moved first to one place, then to another, 
and at last wandered into the studio. 

He was sorry he had done so, for what he saw there 
reminded him of the single gleam of hope they had 
all experienced a few days back, and during which he 
had drawn out from the numerous canvasses that 
stood sloping against the wall the picture he had 
begun to paint in illustration of the ballad of “ Lady 
Hester,” and had placed ready upon the easel. A 
sort of unpleasant fascination drew him now to look 
upon his work ; but the artist seemed to be dead in 
him, and he could only look at it with dulled and 
pre-occupied eyes. Still, as he looked, and as his 


• >s . 


THE LAST DREAMER AWAKENED. 


375 


thoughts ran off, from moment to moment, almost 
tremblingly to ask “ what would be the Doctor’s 
report to-day ? — he became conscious of an altogether 
new aspect that the picture was presenting. It 
seemed, as he gazed, to become strangely personal. 
Lady Hester and the timid bride of the ballad faded . 
into an obscurity scarcely less dense than that from 
which they had originally been drawn, while their 
representatives, Grace, and his own wife, correspond- 
ingly emerged into a startling, vivid presentment of 
their actual selves. Still he looked, and, to his hor- 
ror, found new and hideous fancies thronging into his 
brain ; surging through it, like a confluence of great 
black corrupting streams, which he could not stop : 
but which paralysed his very soul by their noxious 
fumes. And, as though these fancies were not enough, 
facts — facts never dreamed of till now as of the least 
significance, came also in their wake in sinister and 
multitudinous array; each with its own burden of 
evil suggestion to lay at his feet. His head throbbed, 
and his eyes seemed to be starting from their sockets, 
as they remained riveted upon the expression of 
deadly malignity which Grace there fastened upon 
the alarmed but half-playful countenance of his wife. 

He said nothing, even to himself. His whole con- 
ception was too wildly impossible. He would never 
be able to forgive himself if he did not root out at 
once such a diabolical growth, the seed^of which 
could only have been sown by the Father of Lies 
Then he remembered the incident of the ride, and 
Lis own moral certainty that on that day he would 


376 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


have taken home a corpse in the place of a living 
wife, if Grace had not intervened. But he also 
remembered Grace’s love for him — her disappoint- 
ment at his marriage — and her recent refusal of Payne 
Croft. 

- He wiped the dews from his face and head ; then 
he went to a little closet where there was water, and 
took a tumblerful and drank it off ; he then re- 
turned, as though more manfully to confront the 
hideous but unreal phantom his own mind had con- 
jured up. In vain ! It was impossible now to 
resist the impression conveyed by the almost sublime 
hafred he had himself admiringly transferred from 
Grace’s face and gestures to those of the imaginary 
Lady Hester. 

But at last he remembered, and with a sort of smile 
and a sigh, implying some relief, that it was after all 
his own work that he was gazing upon ; and that per- 
haps it was he, and not Grace herself, who was 
responsible for the expression that now so alarmed 
him. And he spoke then — 

“ I am growing nervous, I suppose, and womanish. 
This will never do. But, however, I won’t throw 
away the alarm I have had.” He walked up and 
down for a minute or two, then seated himself at a 
little table, and wrote a hurried note : — 

11 Bletch worth, Morning of Christmas Eve, 
^ “ 11 o’clock. 

“ Dear ARCHY-SCome to me, I beg of you, within an hour 
after you receive this,. Let your wife follow during the day, 
and, when she arrives here^take the management of the house ; 


THE LAST DREAMER AWAKENED. 


377 


neither my wife nor Miss Addersley is able any longer to 
attend to it; both are ill. Make the best arrangements you 
can for a protracted absence from the farm. Your mother 
can manage. Send for her, if she has not already joined 
you. But come, as you value my friendship : I need you. Go 
round, before you come here, to the Telegraph Office at Leatham, 

and send a message to London to Dr. M , to come to Bletch- 

worth Hall instantly, by express, or, if necessary, by special 
train ; and to transmit an immediate answer. Leave another 

* and similar message at the office to Dr. S , to be forwarded 

only in the event of the answer to the first message implying 
any delay. Read this twice to make sure. The addresses of 
both gentlemen will be readily found by the people at the office 
in London. 

“ R. Dell.” 


He sealed the letter, rang the bell, and said to the 
woman who entered — 

“ Send George instantly with that to Norman Mount 
Farm. He must go as fast as the horse will carry 
him. But warn him to be careful ! — no flurry — no 
accidents!” The servant took the letter, and went 
away. 

Mr. Dell then went to the picture, lowered it de- 
liberately from the easel to the floor, and ran his 
knife along the edge, all round, till the canvas 
dropped from the frame. He then cut the picture to 
pieces, and threw the fragments into his waste-basket, 
saying— 

“ Whatever happens, I will never again look upon 
this. Every bit of it, even now, seems to poison 
me by the mere finger touch ! How very long the 
Doctor is this morning ! But he amuses her at 


378 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


times, and then he is apt to be garrulous.” The 
servant now re-entered with a letter — not his own — 
in her hand, saying — 

11 From Miss Adderslev, sir.” 

Oh, the anguish that shot through the frame of the 
strong man at these simple words ! it was impossible, 
he thought, to mistake their meaning. He had borne 
all bravely till now. Yes, doubtless, the Doctor had 
gone away unwilling to speak personally to him, her 
husband ! And now Grace herself also lacked courage 
to come to him. Yet that was hardly like her, he 
remembered. Again he rallied his wandering senses, 
and began to open the letter, with fixed, steady eyes, 
and clenched teeth. But he paused to speak to the 
servant. 

“ Is George off?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Very well. You need not wait.” She went 
away. 

Mr. Dell felt at that moment strangely conscious of 
all that was passing about him in the world of things ; 
yet strangely conscious, too, that there was something 
waiting that would give him different occupation. He 
opened the letter, and perceived to his surprise that it 
began abruptly, and not with the words that he had 
foreseen, as he thought, so clearly, of “ Oh, my dear, 
dear cousin ;” the preface to a story which would then 
no longer need telling. He was still more surprised to 
see what the first few words really were, though half 
relieved by them, as being so unlike what he had anti- 
cipated. 


THE LAST DREAMER AWAKENED. 


379 


“ I want to tell you a strange story, and at a strange 

time. My brain is already beginning to wander, but I will try 
to keep to my tale rigidly — aye, rigidly as it has kept to me. 

“ There was a child in one of the slave States of America — I 
need not tell you her name or the name of the State. People 
said she was beautiful and fortunate — certainly she was not 
happy : in truth she was very miserable. Her mother, though 
caring little about her, except as a pretty plaything, indulged 
her in every possible way. Her nurse, a powerful mulatto, 
alternately petted and tortured her — now wooing her with ten- 
der love, now paralysing her with a kind of insane violence — 
until what little heart the child had, refused at last to be any 
longer tampered with or experimented upon, and grimly shut 
itself up to pine or to die : which it might be, no one cared, not 
even herself, then. 

“ Fearful as is the hurrying and inexorable march of Destiny 
just now, I must give you one picture of that child and that 
time. A slave is to be executed — her mother’s slave — once a 
great ^favourite of the household, and the nurse takes the child 
to a hill within sight of the scaffold, and holds it up that it may 
the better enjoy the spectacle. Oh ! but she was a kind nurse 1 
She taught the child, as she grew towards girlhood, strange 
secrets — precious secrets — dangerous, deadly secrets. No, ask 
no questions ! I will not answer them ; on my soul I will not ! 
The knowledge here shall die with me. But these secrets 
haunted the child’s imagination, and inspired a yearning to try 
their power. And the mulatto once showed her their power ; 
but no one knew except those two ; and no human life was then 
affected, so it mattered little. Can you guess now the state of 
that child’s heart, or are you already guessing what is to come ? 
Its intellect was taken equally good care of. The only principle 
imparted to it was that of self-indulgence ; the only develop- 
ment afforded to it was that of self-conceit ; the only aspirations 
favoured were those which ever urged the soul to crave for 
more and more wealth, social display, influence, and power. 
The child throve so bravely in all these things, that she would 


380 THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 

probably have outstripped her instructors had full scope been 
given her. 

“ She grew in years, and became an object of desire, emula- 
tion, and envy, as the rich heiress. Her father was supposed to 
be rich : it was a mistake ; he was only self-indulgent. At his 
death a bare pittance remained for the daughter and widow. 

11 Do you recognise the original of the portrait, here so feebly 
sketched ? I cannot : the words I write are so unlike what I 
intended to have written. But, in truth, I am no longer inte- 
rested in dealing with the character and motives of a person 
so weak, worthless, and evil. Cousin, I send you what seems 
to be the mental history — but it is, in truth, only the cowardly 
excuse — of a murderess ! 

u Aye, clutch the paper in your hands ! Gaze up into heaven, 
and down into hell, and ask help or explanation of either. Begin 
the maddening march from wall to wall, from bar to bar of this 
life-cage, that I have now continued so long. But come back 
and read to the end, and be thankful, as you do it, you are not 
as I am. O cousin, could you sit down for one moment with 
me upon this floor, and look thence upon the past and the 
future of us both, you would say you have indeed much to be 
thankful for. 

“ I rave, I know, while trying to be very calm. Your wife 
is dying, and it is by my hand 1 There is the confession, made 
in a sane mind, which I shall sign presently, in letters large 
enough for a world to read them 1 

“ I have just enough of the semblance of good left in me not 
to go to your wife ; although my soul — Pah ! — the soul of a 
murderess — you will cry ! Well, cousin, something — be it soul 
or sense — yearns, weakly enough, but very passionately, to lie 
at her feet for but one minute before she knows all, or even 
after ; — for I think I could venture to meet her and confess all, 
and ask for that one moment, even after ; — if you did not know ; 
for she will be more merciful than you, cousin; but you might 
think I should thus increase her danger ; and although I know 
now she must die, and will not let you suffer as I have suffered 


THE LAST DREAMER AWAKENED. 


381 


from false hopes, yet I will not have you tell me — ‘You have 
twice killed her!’ 

“ Say nothing yet to my mother. There will come a time 
whea no one will need to say much to her ; things will be so 
very plain. 

“ By my own will I wait here, your prisoner, in my own 
room. I await here — those you will send to me. What you do, 
do quickly, or your justice may be baffled. I cannot trust my- 
self much longer to these guilty hands. 

“ Grace Addersley. 

“ P.S. — She who writes to you may be spared the desire to 
lift off even one feather’s weight from the burden that is dragging 
her down — down ! Something — no matter what — of late changed 
me. God then punished me with hope ; — hope of undoing all. 
The doctor has this morning settled that. I have no dread of 
being discovered. That is truth. Why I discover myself, you 
may, perhaps, one day understand. That is my one consolation 
— don’t take it away. And 0 cousin, dear, dear cousin, don’t 
see me, please, ever more.” 

* * * * 

• * 

Let me for a time pass a veil over the heart and 

mind of him who read this letter. 

* * . * * 

When, an hour or two later, Archy with hurried 

step came to the door, and tapped, he found Mr. Dell 

sitting in a chair in a darkened corner, a letter in his 
hand, and staring senselessly upon him, as though 
recovering from a trance. He then rose, took no 
notice of Archy’s earnest, sympathetic look or out- 
stretched hand, but said in a hard voice, while his 
eyes looked almost the colour of blood, “ Read that.” 
He put Grace’s letter into Archy’s hand, and then, 
taking no more notice of him, began to write. When 


382 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


he had finished a short note and sealed it, he handed 
it to Archy, saying — 

“ Send that to Mr. Staunton. He is the nearest 
magistrate.” Then seeing that Archy was so Over- 
come with horror as to be absolutely helpless, he said — 

“ Ho matter. Recover yourself. We have work 
to do now. I will dispatch this, and come back.” 
He went out, and left Archy for a brief period to make 
acquaintance with a grief that taught him, at last, 
what child’s play had been all his previous sorrows 
beside this. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 

When the good Doctor left Mrs. Dell, guarding, as 
he thought, so carefully his terrible discovery from 
her, he had forgotten how very much more eloquent 
in their truthfulness might be looks, and tones, and 
even bodily movements, than words: and that his 
patient, a keen and deeply interested observer, had 
her own reasons for suspecting his kindly deception, 
and her own reasons for not wasting one of the few 
precious hours that might yet remain to her of life in 
useless illusions intended to solace herself or her friends. 

She began writing immediately a memorandum — 
chiefly relating to gifts and remembrances, each ac- 
companied with some tender or kindly, and even, in 
one case, a school-friendship, of pleasant remark. 
Then she wrote to her parents. Oh, that was indeed 
a hard task ! But even that — exquisitely painful as it 
was, was lightened, after Grod’s own fashion, by the 
consciousness of the greater things that were yet to 
be done. Poor old couple ! If anything can smoothe 
for you the weary pillow, on which night by night 
you will henceforth lay your heads, and still ask, 


384 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ How many times longer must we do this ?” — it is 
such aJetter as that she has just written to you. 

Thus some time passed before she began to wonder 
at the absence of her husband and of Grace. After 
a while she grew uneasy. The former had scarcely 
left her side for many weeks, except during the 
briefest and most necessary intervals. She rang the 
bell, which hung ready over her head, and when the 
servant came she bade her seek Mr. Dell. Minutes 
elapsed, and still he came not. Again she rang, and 
asked for Miss Addersley. 

“ I think she’s in her room, ma’am.” 

“ Beg her to come to me.” 

The servant went, and did not return, and still 
Grace came not. At last, when Winny was growing 
really excited, Jean entered; and, notwithstanding 
her own state, Winny could not help saying a word 
to her as to the great change in her appearance, she 
was so wonderfully altered, so much stouter, rosier, 
happier-looking. But Jean listened as one who com- 
prehended not, and seemed only intent on the duty of 
lavishing upon Mrs. Dell all that she might venture 
to show of personal care and overflowing affection, 
and to engage her in quiet yet engrossing conversation. 
But heart and head were secretly at war. Jean was ill 
at finesse or scheming, and Winny quickly perceived 
and understood Jean’s behaviour. 

“Jean, there is something on foot which you are 
trying to cover. What is it?” 

Jean tried hard to shape her lips to the “No, no,” 
that was hovering upon them, but they would not 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 385 

lend themselves to the lie, and only quivered help- 
lessly with the attempt. 

“Jean, where is my husband? Where is Grace ? 

I will see them both — and here. Yes, weak as I am 
— nay, dying — it is useless, Jean, to conceal it any 
longer, for I know what the doctor has been saying. • 
I will instantly seek them both. Say so. Haste ! no 
words, Jean; begone! Life ebbs fast! oh, quick!” 

To such a message there could be but one answer. 
Mr. Dell, who had till this moment intentionally 
kept away from his wife, determined to act, and per- 
ceiving alike the uselessness and danger of discussion 
— and, 0 God ! thought he, what a discussion ! — 
before her, now said to Jean — 

“I will come.” She then went from him to seek 
Grace. 

“We are but straws now in the hands of Fate. 
Contention is useless. One duty alone have I to see 
to, and, God willing, that shall be seen to : not even 
she shall move me there.” So murmured Mr. Dell, 
as he paced up and down the studio, reluctant still to 
meet the gaze of his wife,, or answer her inquiries. 

While he thus delayed Jean returned hurriedly, 
saying in a still more frightened voice — 

“ Miss Addersley is very ill. She refuses to go to 
Mrs. Dell unless you expressly consent.” 

“ Let her go then, first. But warn her not to stay. 
I shall be there within ten minutes, whether she be 
gone or not.” 

* * * * * 


Jean found Grace as she had just left her, sitting 

17 


386 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


dressed as for a departure, except that she had no 
bonnet on. The chair was by the window, and the 
eyes of the thin, spectre-like form were fixed in the 
old direction, under the cedars, and the lips were 
faintly murmuring — 

“Cruel! cruel! Why this delay?” Then, after 
a pause she continued — “I wonder whether the bits 
of card beyond yonder tuft are quite rotten and 
worthless, like me; or whether they might, if re- 
covered, be put together again, and so bring back for 
me (whom nothing can bring back) her face, and 
brow, and hair, and smile. Aye, it’s no use denying 
now, it is a sweet smile ! O God, a bitter sweet for 
me ! I suppose they would let me keep that mangled 
image of her in my cell, and look at it now and then ? 
If they did but know they might be satisfied — quite 
satisfied — even as an increase of punishment. Well, 
well.” 

Jane gave the message, and it seemed to rouse a 
kind of artificial life in Grace. She said: 

“He is very kind. Come then, Jean. Ho^ I can 
walk, thank you. Do not touch me; you will be 
sorry if you do, by and by.” 

“ Oh, Miss Addersley, I know all !” Jean’s burst- 
ing heart would not allow her to say more. 

“ Aye, such news flies fast. I shall realize my posi- 
tion soon !” 

Jean seemed still to wish to help Grace, who, finding 
herself faltering in her walk, consented to take the 
proffered arm. 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 387 


Mrs. Dell had, in the satisfaction of the answer 
she had received that both were coming to her, dropped 
back to rest ; andt o allay the excitement she had tem- 
porarily given way to, she shut her eyes, and began 
to measure, step by step, the probable nature of the 
brief mortal journey that remained to her, and to 
yearn for the instant when she might say to those 
two — “We have done now with the things of the 
world I Come, husband and sister, let us enjoy our 
last communion of love. Give me that, and have no 
fear.” 

Suddenly she heard a breathing low down, yet 
close to her, and she turned hastily, and saw that head 
discrowned now of all its fair circling plaits, wild, 
dishevelled, buried in those long, fair, but no longer 
jewelled hands. Yes, Grace was kneeling there, 
abased in body as in soul, unable to speak ; but her 
attitude told all. 

“Grace!” Thick, heaving, convulsive sobs were 
the only possible answer. 

“Grace, dear, have I indeed something serious to 
forgive you ?” 

“No, it is beyond forgiveness,” the voice hoarsely 
replied. 

“ Is it my life ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Nothing more?” 

“ If there could be aught more — no.” 

“ I am sorry now to die, Grace ; but can you not 
believe me if I say I do forgive you from my inmost 
soul ?” Grace was silent, and seemed only to cower 


388 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and shrink more down towards the ground. “ Grace, 
I must tell you now, that since that dreadful night I 
began slowly and unwillingly to suspect your and my 
secret; and I — I am a woman — and life was very 
sweet to me. No, no — hush, oh, hush ! listen to me, 
if now you care differently for me than you did ! 
Yes, life is very sweet to me, and I thought at first I 
could not forgive you. But when I saw what you 
suffered, and knew its cause — when I felt that you 
were beginning to change in feeling towards me, and 
to repent, and struggle for instead of against me — 
and oh, Grace, when I remembered that I owed that 
very life to you — ” 

“ Spare me — spare me, in His name !” 

“ Oh, then my heart yearned to be at peace with 
you, and to forgive you.” 

There was then a pause, for Mrs. Dell, who had 
with difficulty made herself intelligible, became too 
faint to go on. The silence was only broken by those 
terrible breathings and gasps. 

“ I think, Grace, if you will let me, I can even yet 
love you. Hark! what are those sounds, Grace?” 
resumed Winny shortly. “Surely, I hear strange 
voices in the house! Listen, Grace — what is it?” 

But Grace still cowered by the side of the sofa, 
understanding too well what the sounds meant, but 
utterly regardless of them, except in so far as they 
might affect Mrs. Dell, or her own proximity to her. 
But she was , powerless alike for word or action, for 
good ns well as evil, thenceforth. She knew it, and 
was silent. 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 389 


The door opened, and Mr. Dell entered. How ter- 
rible was the change in his appearance ! He looked 
suddenly aged; suddenly changed from a genial, 
kindly, courteous gentleman, to a minister of wrath, 
whom neither love nor sorrow could move for one 
instant from the duty assigned. Behind him came a 
gentleman, Mr. Staunton, accompanied by his clerk, 
and behind them appeared yet a third man, whose 
office needed no explanation. Mrs. Dell started up, 
and confronted them all, with flashing eyes that burn- 
ed upon her white face like red lights upon the snow. 
Mr. Dell saw, but he shrank not. 

11 Winny, they come to arrest a murderer. See,” 
he said to those behind him as he pointed to Grace — • 
“ there she lies !” 

Grace then rose to her full height, and without look- 
ing at any one, said — “ I am ready but even as she 
said the words she would have fallen upon the ground, 
but that Jean, who had crept in behind the strangers, 
now caught her, and held her up, while some one 
placed a chair. 

“ Mr. Dell,” said Winny then, in a voice of strange 
dignity and reproach — and it made him pause when no 
other earthly tones could have produced that effect — 
“ I have, in our too brief married life, never asked 
you, I think, yet for one earnest favour. Will you 
now grant me one ?” 

“ What is it ?” inquired her husband, in a tone that 
she had never before heard from him to her. 

11 That you beg these gentlemen to withdraw for a 
few minutes — if only that I may die in peace.” 


390 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


“ Winny, Winny !” groaned the miserable husband ; 
but for the moment she heeded him not, but waved 
her hand, and so he spoke to them, and the men, all 
but he, went out. And they three were there alone 
— the husband, and the wife, and she whose name 
henceforth was — the Murderess ! 

“Yes, dear, dear husband, I am dying; you know 
it, perhaps, already; if not, let me tell you now. 
What good can it do to me if this heart-broken peni- 
tent, who has revealed her own guilt, dies too, except 
in God’s own time ?” 

“ Justice ! Justice !” was Mr. Dell’s low but inexora- 
bly stern reply. 

“ And to what will justice condemn her worse than 
she now experiences ?” 

“Death!” 

They were interrupted by a hollow sepulchral voice 
that now broke in upon them, as though not belong- 
ing to their sphere. 

“ I am dying ! in effect am dead already. I foresaw 
this, and — and — I took advantage of it to spare my- 
self the last indignities of law. Forgive that, if you 
can. I did not wish to save myself from any expo- 
sure that you might justly subject me to. I thought 
only to have died a few hours later when I had left 
this place, and when no one need have cared about me 
any further, except to be sharers of the universal relief 
that so black a spot upon humanity had disappeared.” 

Mr. Dell heard this, and saw at once there was no 
more to be done. He only wished now that she were 
out of his sight. 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 391 


“Husband!” Mr. Dell heard the imploring tone, 
but turned away. 

“ Oh, my dear, dear husband, shall we, who have 
been so united in heart and soul, as, I think, no two 
human beings ever were before, be disunited in death ?” 

“ Disunited ! O God, send her away !” 

“ I will not. As I stand here upon the last edge 
of earth, and gaze out upon the terrible abyss before 
me, I swear to you I ’will not ! I have forgiven her 
— you must forgive her.” 

“ Never — never!” 

His wife sank back with a feeble moan, and then 
the husband cried to her, passionately — 

“ Oh, Winny, Winny, you are too hard with me ! 
But — but — yes, yes, love, I will, if only you will 
show me how it is humanly possible. Revive, 
dearest ! My wife ! Winny ! 0 God, she is gone, and 
thus! No, no, there! Yes, Winny, these are my 
kisses on your lips ; it is 1 who ask you to forgive 
me, and to hear me say — ‘Cousin, before God and 
man I forgive your great crime. I will compromise 
no law, but I forgive you !” 

And then Winny revived a little, and kissed her 
husband gratefully, but looked so wearied the while! 
Then she tried to smile upon Jean, who had again 
crept in, and she said to her — 

“Where is your husband? Let him come. Tell 
him beforehand, to comfort him, that the shadows 
that have weighed so long upon us all are passing off 
now. He must not be afraid.” 

Jean ran out to conceal the blinding tears, and pre- 


392 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


sently returned with Archy, who knelt before Winny, 
kissed the dear hand that was held out, and then 
withdrew with his wife a little behind the sofa. 

Grace had slid off the chair, and dragged herself 
to the sofa ; and there she lay with her head against 
it, but moving no hand up to touch any other hand, say- 
ing no word to invite any kind of reply. Presently 
she heard that one voice which now alone she cared 
to hear, ask — 

“ Grace ! Where is she ? Oh, you are still here. 
I am glad. Reach me your hand.” But there was 
no reply. 

11 Grace, dear, do you know that my husband — oh, 
God will bless him for it, be you sure of that as I am 
— has so filled my life with happiness during these 
,few months, that I felt at times as though we had all 
made some great mistake in the reckoning. People 
will, you know, do so when they are very happy. 
Yes, I have thought that he and I must have lived 
together many, many years ; I do not see else how so 
much of human bliss could have been pressed into 
so. small a measure. I am content, therefore, to die ; . 
I do not say I would be, if I did not know that 
death was inevitable. But, Grace, let me now tell 
you — and I can now tell you, dearest husband, why 
I seemed to have such morbid fancies about dying 
young. Both in my mother’s family, and in my 
father’s, there have been deaths with the first child. 

And my own dear, dear mother .” There was a 

pause here, and a secret heart.-cry of “ 0 God, help 
her when she knows this!” Then she .continued — 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 393 


“ My mother nearly gave up her life when she gave 
birth to me ; so you see I might have died soon in any 
case. But I have one trouble now — a great one on 
my soul. Ah, Grace! if you would but be your old 
strong self, with your new innocent soul, and take 
that trouble from me !” 

“What — what — is — it?” at last murmured the 
muffled, hoarse voice from the floor, each word seem- 
ing more difficult than its predecessor. 

“I will tell you, if you will first answer me honest- 
ly one question.” 

“Speak!” 

“Do you think, in spite of all error and wrong- 
doings, that I may hope to go to heaven !” 

“Yes!” 

“ Then my trouble is, to know what I shall say, 
when God asks me for my sister.” 

This was too much. There was an awful cry 
heard all through the house — a wild, frightful burst 
from that agonized, despairing wreck of a soul! 
Again and again it rose, though more faintly, for 
death never for an instant took his grasp from her 
heart — the half-stifled, struggling, frenzied heart, so 
full of life at last ! As the cries subsided they began 
to change, now into half-stifled laughter, now into 
piteous but reluctant wailings. 

“Grace, sister, you must go with me. I cannot 
leave you behind. Your hand — thank God, I have 
you fast! Pray! Pray to him! I am sure your 
soul has prayed again and again during these last few 
days, though you did not know that it was prayer, 
17 * 


394 


THE SHADOW IN THE HOUSE. 


and I am sure that God has heard you I Husband ! 
raise her! You have your will. Justice cannot be 
evaded — she would not evade it. Comfort her, for 
my sake I Aye, there now, I can embrace you both 
with one grasp of my arms, and of my heart.” 

“ Ah, no I I cannot, I cannot ! My guilt is enough 
to drag you down too !” Grace was trying in a half- 
helpless way to draw back, but Winny held her con- 
vulsively — 

“ Ho — no, you are mine. Believe — pray — hope ! 
Hearer, Grace! — or my voice won’t reach }^ou. A 
little nearer, dear ! I feel — yes — the sands are going ; 
and — my — thoughts wander. What is it — I wanted 
to — to ? — Qh, I know now. Grace, dear, I will say 
for you to God what you cannot say for yourself!” 
And Grace, no longer resisting, no longer apparently 
making effort of any kind, moved her lips, doubtless 
in prayer, and lay with her head against Mrs. Dell’s 
body, and her eyes shut, but grasping the little hand, 
that was then all she possessed or needed any more. 

And there was a long pahse. Suddenly the Christ- 
mas-Eve bells broke out, and they seemed to awaken 
Mrs. Dell from a kind of slumber into which she had 
fallen. She opened her eyes and met his gazing upon 
hers, as he leant over her; and a smile, oh, how ravish- 
ingly sweet it was to the poor husband amid all his 
agony! — illumined her face — as she murmured still 
more faintly, “I thought I was in Heaven! But I 
see now God has sent you, in soul, to take me there ! 
You will come altogether by-and-by. But bide your 
time, dearest. Do God’s work and man’s. And then 


A MIGHTIER SHADE ABSORBS THE SHADOW. 395 


when we meet — ” Mr. Dell could hear no more, 
though the lips were still moving for a little while, 
after the eyes were closed. 

Nearer and nearer he clasped her to him. Again 
the blue eyes opened and he saw the smile of recog- 
nition, and he could see no more. It was too late, 
when he would again have looked. 

As for Grace, no one spoke to her, nor touched her 
for some hours. They found her dead. 


THE END. 

























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